beloved by the sun, I bloom and shine for him

Oh, dear.

2013-10-25T14:52:01Z

So Orlando and Miranda are getting divorced.

I feel bad for the child, tbh. Although if they're still friends I'm sure he won't suffer terribly.

Bday plans (cont)

2013-09-10T16:53:46Z

Re: my last post

I bought a ticket for Nov 18th 7:30 pm performance (thanks again to gattodoro for the useful link :)). I also bought the airline tickets and booked the hotel. So I'll be in London from Sunday the 17th til Tuesday the 19th. EEP! :D

Super excited, actually. A bit nervous, too. So please don't mind me if I start panicking as the date approaches. :)

If anyone else happens to be going (slim chance, I know) or would like to meet up I'd be absolutely thrilled :)

Bday plans

2013-09-09T16:07:53Z

from October 26th until January 25th at the Harold Pinter theatre in London.

I will be turning 30 in November (Christ, I can't believe it) and I got the fanciful notion in my head to treat myself to a trip to London and to see Ben's play. Colin Morgan is also in it, as is Rupert Grint.

Only I've never been to London, and I wouldn't be going with husband (since he doesn't want to, and I don't want to drag him along) so I'm trying to decide whether I can do this on my own (I'm dying at the thought of Heathrow, but that can't be helped). I know it may sound ridiculous but I don't travel much, and I'm not the bravest of persons around, but I really, really want to go. Money is not an issue thankfully.

The seating plan - could someone please tell a theatre noob which seats are the best? Or at least good? Meaning should I try and get a seat from the stalls? :)

Fic: Waking Up (Bond/Q)

2013-08-29T05:03:26Z

Title: Waking Up
Pairing: 00Q
Author: laeglass
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Q is not a morning person. Like, at all.

link to AO3

(not beta'd, sadly, since I couldn't find anyone to do it.)

Beta

2013-08-26T17:13:38Z

^ This person is here just for the eye candy. :)

I wrote a story. It's pornish (kind of) and it's 00Q (with the new Q and Craig!Bond). If anyone would like to stop me from embarrassing myself by posting an unbeta'd fic, here's your chance. :) It's short, I swear.

00Q

2013-08-10T14:18:45Z

So I tumbled into the 00Q fandom (I entirely blame Mr. Whishaw). I can't be the only one, right? :P

I have a tiny little ficlet that would probably do with a look-over. Any takers? It is very short, and very much G-rated.

In other news, I'm starting on a new job in three weeks. Eep.

Ben Whishaw

2013-08-05T04:48:31Z

Ben got married! (in 2012, to be precise, so this is not a very recent thing)

♥

I absolutely adore this guy (and am not terribly surprised to learn that he's gay).

Help! fics needed!

2013-07-03T20:56:14Z

My dears.

Since VOLA Slash went under a few months ago (boo!) I've been dying to read some of the stories that seem to have been archived there exlusively.

I'm mostly missing:

Porn Star

Tender Persuasion

And the fic where Orlando was a thief specializing in jewelry and Viggo was a cop/agent/something trying to catch Orlando's gang (can't remember the name:()

by Bailey

Any other fics by Bailey will also do! If anyone has a link saved somewhere I'll happily try the Wayback Machine, and if anyone has a fic saved in a file I would be eternally grateful to receive a copy!

laeglass (at) yahoo (dot) co (dot) uk

Wanted to ask you guys first before trying lotrips_finders :)

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 8/8

2013-07-01T19:57:50Z

Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs* Feedback is very much appreciated. :) To everyone who made it this far; thank you so much for reading. Have a wonderful summer. ♥

Previous chapters

Orlando left England a few weeks later, but promised to fly his mother over for Thanksgiving, “because it's actually a really big deal in the States, and my friend Lij always throws a glorious feast and you really should be there.”

It wasn't a teary goodbye, but he felt wistful when the plane took off from Heathrow and set course for LAX. He didn't dare think about Viggo, not quite yet; first he'd get back to what used to be his normal life, and only then would he start considering adding further complications to it. There was the trial to think about too; he had given a statement already, but wasn't sure yet if he'd be asked to be a witness in court. He'd have to ask Andrea's lawyer friend Chris about the details.

Right now, it all seemed quite complicated, but his mother believed that he could make it work, and Orlando was starting to believe that too.

He dozed on the plane, not quite falling asleep; the flight lasted over eleven hours, and he had flipped through the magazines he'd brought with him in the first thirty minutes. He didn't dare to turn on his iPad - that Sam had made him buy - thanks to the flight crew and their strict reminders to turn off all electronic gadgets during the takeoff, and wished he could fall asleep.

Elijah collected him from LAX late in the evening, and hugged him for a long time in the busy arrivals hall. Orlando stiffened for a split second at the initial contact, and then relaxed into the hug. This was his life. This was his friend whom he trusted with anything and everything. This was normal, and it was good to be back.

“This is gayer than Elton John's Oscar party,” Orlando complained, and got a swat on his ass for his trouble. “How's my homeboy?”

“Ecstatic now that you're back,” Elijah said, his happy face lending credibility to his words, and took a critical look at him. “You've gained a little weight. Good for you, gorgeous. You always were too skinny. Now let's get you home.”

They linked their arms and Elijah steered Orlando through the throngs of people, talking his ear off as they went. Apparently everyone had been asking about him and Elijah was still upset that they hadn't been able to throw Orlando a proper birthday party before he flew over to England - 'You only turn twenty-five once, you know'. Orlando demurred that he hadn't been in a mood to party anyway, and that his mother had made him a cake.

Elijah made a face. There were cake people and there were non-cake people, and Elijah belonged to the latter group.

Matt was waiting for them in the parking area and loaded Orlando's luggage into the trunk of his Jeep while Elijah kept up the steady chatter. Orlando and Matt didn't first know whether to shake hands or hug, but in the end they embraced warmly to Elijah's delight.

“Good to have you back, Orli,” Matt said and patted him on the back. Orlando assured him that he was glad to be back. Every time he said it, it became a little more true, he found, but there was still a hollow feeling in his chest that didn't seem to be going away.

“If all our guest rooms weren't already taken, we'd take you to our place,” Elijah explained from the front seat, twisting around to talk to Orlando who was lounging on the back seat. Orlando remembered with a start that Matt's birthday was coming up and some family members had apparently already flown over. “Things being as they are, we're taking you to your place. If you want me to spend the night you only need to say. I went grocery shopping yesterday so there's fresh food and everything.”

“Thanks, mate,” Orlando said, touched, but he felt a small prick of unease. How would it feel going back home?

The righthand-side traffic looked odd after the months he’d spent in UK and the traffic jam was massive, and Orlando thought that he'd have to take his Maserati out for a spin soon. He hadn't driven in months, since Sonia had warned him off her Volvo more than once, and Orlando was itching to hit the road again. He had more than once considered buying a motorcycle, but so far his friends had managed to talk him out of those thoughts. Now, the idea was back with full force.

Matt insisted on carrying Orlando's luggage to his apartment, and Elijah let them in with the key that Orlando had left him before leaving for England. Orlando half-expected a cacophonous chorus of 'Surprise!' because that was what always happened in the movies, but no such thing took place, and he felt enormously relieved. The last thing he wanted right now was to entertain a group of people, friends and colleagues and acquaintances as they might be. He felt quite certain that were he to sit down he'd fall asleep instantly.

Orlando the party boy was truly and well dead and buried. For the time being, at least. No way to tell what the future might hold, he reflected.

Elijah chattered on about how he'd watered Orlando's potted plants and taken care of the mail before his mailbox got too stuffed, and Orlando listened with half an ear as he walked round his place, taking in his apartment. Still spotless, still homely and welcoming. Home. Only... it didn't feel like home anymore, and Orlando suddenly felt empty again.

“So, are you hungry?” Elijah asked after listing all the little chores he had done around the place during Orlando's absence. “Did you have anything on the plane?”

“No, not hungry,” Orlando said and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “A bit tired, actually. I think I'll just lie down for a bit.”

“Of course!” Elijah smacked himself on the forehead. “You're probably jet-lagged as fuck and knowing you, you didn't sleep on the plane at all. Now let's get you to bed.”

“Lij, first, I'm not an invalid, and second, dream on boy, you're not getting me to bed,” Orlando said with a smirk. Matt started to laugh and Elijah extended his middle finger in Orlando's direction in response, his face deadpan. “But yeah, I'll lie down. Maybe I'll catch a wink or two.”

He hadn't slept on the plane, just like Elijah had guessed; he never did. He wasn't afraid of flying as such, but small, constricted places had always made him uncomfortable, and increasingly so after the sauna incident.

Elijah followed him into the bedroom, and while Orlando undressed to his tee-shirt and trunks, stripped down the bed. Orlando slid between the sheets, unable to withhold a small groan of satisfaction, and Elijah tucked him in and then sat down on the edge of the bed. He studied Orlando's face for a minute, and apparently finding what he had wanted, he spoke.

“You can tell me to butt out if you want,” he started. “But there's someone who's missed you even more than I have. If that's possible.”

“You've talked to Viggo?” left Orlando's lips before he could reconsider. The hopeful note in his voice was so evident that it was a miracle Elijah didn't comment on it.

“Yes. I believe I could call him a friend now. I'd like to think so.” Elijah smiled and smoothed the worry lines on Orlando's forehead with the tips of his fingers. “You were right. He's a good guy.”

“Well good for you,” Orlando said with not a little bitterness.

“Orlando, don't,” Elijah said quietly. “Don't shut me out or pretend that I know nothing of what goes on in your head. You think you're bad for him. You think you don't deserve to be loved like that. So you leave and cease all communication because somehow that makes sense to you.”

Well, it had made sense. It had made a lot of sense at the time, but Orlando didn't try and justify his past actions; he had done enough of that with Michael.

“I'm tired of being the victim,” Orlando said instead. “The weak, helpless victim in constant need of rescuing. I've done a lot of shit that I'm ashamed of, but I've always had some self-esteem left. Going from that to feeling like I'm less than nothing is a hell of a trip to make. Well, I've been there and back again.”

He glared at Elijah for emphasis, but his friend refused to be intimidated by that look.

“Whether you want him in your life or not is ultimately your call. I'll never love you any less. You're the strongest person I know.”

Orlando's mouth quirked at that, but the smile wouldn't stay; he was too tired. “Why do I feel so weak, then?”

“I'd say it's because you're denying yourself the love and comfort that you need, and deserve. There's no shame in that.”

Orlando looked at him for a moment, his face unreadable, and then he had to crack a reluctant smile. “Fuck, Elwood, when did you grow up and get so wise?”

“I don't know about wise, but I do know you. Better than you'd like, by the look of you,” Elijah said and grinned, and his smile lit up the whole room. “Boy, am I glad that you're home. You beautiful pain in the ass, you.”

“I sincerely hope to be less of that in the future,” Orlando said seriously, and then had to yawn. He felt like he hadn't slept for a week. “Thanks for everything, love. Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Yeah, we'll be here,” Elijah said, and got up, leaning in to kiss Orlando's forehead before he went out the room.

Orlando thought he heard voices in his sleep, and then he remembered that Elijah had said that he and Matt would be there, and so he allowed himself to slip back into his dreams.

He imagined there was someone in the room with him, a gentle touch to the face that wasn't meant to alarm or to awaken, and so he slept on.

He dreamed of Viggo's fingers threading through his hair and his mouth covering Orlando's in a gentle kiss.

And it was all just a dream, for when he woke, it was Elijah who brought him a cup of coffee and asked him if he'd feel up to going out to get some dinner, or if he wanted to have dinner at home.

* * *

It was all business as usual.

He'd been back a week, and nothing seemed to appeal. He went out with Andrea and his partner Jack for a late dinner at Château Marmont's garden terrace, looking at his friend with his lover and hating himself for feeling slightly jealous of their happiness; it wasn't that he begrudged Andrea his relationship, but seeing the happy couple reminded him of what he was so badly lacking. Jack Nicholson was also dining there with a lady friend, he noticed, and a gaggle of models waltzed in to have steamed fish with ice water.

The conversation was light, and Jack teased him when Orlando said that he'd been seeing an older man while he was in England – referring to Michael – and said that it was a comforting thing to know that while some things in life changed, Orlando's taste in men never did. Orlando made a wry face and dropped the subject.

Andrea and Jack were in the process of trying to find a good and trustworthy real estate agent, because Andrea had got it into his head that they should relocate to Venice as soon as humanly possible, and listed a number of things that the new house simply had to have. Orlando, who lived in Downtown, himself, smiled at their ambitious goal and sipped at his white wine; he still didn't drink much, but to have water with his dinner instead of wine would have been a sacrilege and an insult to the food.

“Sadly, I'm not talking about Venice, Italy,” Andrea said with a sigh, and looked at his partner with a practised pout. “Jack won't go. I keep telling him I'll teach him enough Italian to get by, but it's no good.”

“Parla Inglese and Buona Sera, that's good enough for me,” Jack said with a laugh. “I'm just afraid it won't cut it in the streets.”

“I'd love to go back to Milan someday,” Orlando said softly and played with his glass. He had fallen in love with the city during Fashion week, but going on a holiday there would be as close to perfect as things could get. He'd loved the food, and the people, and the architecture, and he'd learned enough every day phrases to manage without an interpreter or having to resort to sign language.

“Count me in!” Andrea said, excitedly. “I have family in Torino, it's not that far away, you could rent a car in Milano and you'd be there in a few hours.”

Jack gave him a fond look and pretended to be exasperated. “I'd better tag along to keep you boys out of trouble!”

Upon leaving, while Jack was getting his car, and while they were waiting outside in the balmy evening, Andrea hugged him close for a long time and told him that he was ecstatic to have his Orlando back, because life just wasn't any fun without his friend in it. Orlando teased him by saying that Elijah had used the exact same words when describing his own feelings. Andrea rolled his eyes, and let out an Italian expletive.

“Oh yeah, your friend Lij, who'd like nothing better than turn you into some dude's wife.”

Orlando laughed, because it had forever been a point of contest between his two friends.

“Hey now, there's nothing wrong with being an equal partner to some decent bloke,” he said, tongue in cheek. “Just look at you. Two years ago you were chasing tail with the worst of them, that being me. And now you're together with Jack and haven't hooked up with anyone else since God knows when. So who's the wife?”

Andrea had to concede defeat laughingly. “Alright, alright. Jack has totally wifed me up. So what about you? Have you talked to Viggo yet?”

They hadn't talked about Viggo over dinner, but Orlando had been able to tell that Andrea had badly wanted to ask about him. He'd refrained in front of his partner, knowing that Orlando valued his privacy.

Orlando's face turned serious. “No,” he said quietly. “I don't know what to say. 'Hi, it's me, that bloke that disappeared from your life without a proper goodbye. Fancy a shag?'”

“I know you're after a lot more than that,” Andrea said, his mouth twisting in sympathy at Orlando's pained tone of voice. “Look. I trust that you know me well enough to realise I'm not being a sleaze right now. You do, right?”

Orlando was puzzled. “I would never think you were a sleaze,” he protested. “What's up, Peretti?”

They stepped out of the way when a couple came out of the front door, realising that they were all but blocking the entrance. Andrea took Orlando by his arm and pulled him to the side of the building that was shrouded by some shrubs. Orlando thought to himself that this ought to set tongues wagging again. He could picture the gossip columns before his mind's eye: 'Andrea and Orli cosy at Château Marmont'. He mentally shrugged. Whatever.

Andrea's face flushed, and he looked away. “You know I love you like I'd love any hot cousin,” he said lightly, and Orlando rolled his eyes and said yes. “And even though I do think you're totally hot I wouldn't shag you just to make a point.”

Orlando started to laugh, because the discussion was becoming absurd. “Yes, I do know that. You wouldn't kick me out of bed. Feeling's mutual and so on. So what's your point?”

Andrea took his face into his hands, surprising Orlando, and brushed their lips together. It was a friendly kiss, and Orlando enjoyed the affectionate contact. “I know you're hurting,” Andrea said. “And I know that despite you making light of what you're feeling, right now you could use some love, and comfort. You and I aren't in love but we do love each other. And it would be no hardship at all for me and Jack to show you how much you mean to us, and we'd like to see you well. Not because we want to fuck you but because we want to love you.”

Orlando's puzzlement started to smooth out as he worked out the meaning of his friend's words. “You mean... Are you inviting me into bed with you two?”

“Not necessarily bed,” Andrea said with a fluid shrug. “You were with Jack once upon a time, and even if it didn't work out he still cares for you. You're my friend and I love you. If you need any kind of comfort, or desire any act of love that has no strings attached, you don't have to go for strangers. We would be happy to give you that.”

Orlando's eyes filled and he hugged his friend close. “I love you. Thank you. I'd never want to intrude on your relationship and I know that's not what you're talking about. You're right in that I could use some comfort. I'm just afraid that no other will do but the man that I'm in love with. At least not now.”

“Then you should call him,” Andrea said softly. “Call him and tell him you'd like to talk. If he's any man at all he'll realise what he has in you.”

Orlando wiped at his eyes with his palms and mock-glared at his friend. “Hot cousin, my ass,” he said by way of turning the conversation back to safer waters. “You'd totally fuck a hot cousin and no questions asked.”

“Yeah,” Andrea admitted, and the two friends started to laugh.

* * *

Meanwhile, Elijah was busy making plans for Matt's thirtieth birthday celebration, and Orlando contributed as much as he could whenever asked for advice or opinion.

He hadn't gone back to the gym once, and had only texted his manager to let her know that he was back, but wasn't accepting any gigs yet. Rebecca had immediately called him back, almost frantic with her pleas that Orlando return to work immediately, but Orlando refused to budge on his decision and she had to be content with that. He'd also called Andrea's lawyer friend to ask about the trial proceedings and what his part in it would be, as his only experience on US trials came from TV shows and he wasn't sure what to expect.

Matt's thirtieth birthday bash was a very casual affair at their beach house in Malibu, dress code being 'whatever the fuck you like, but for god's sake wear something', and it started at 6 pm. Orlando suspected Elijah had written the invitations under the influence.

Elijah had asked, cajoled, threatened and eventually bribed Orlando into attendance (although neither he nor Orlando ever told anyone what the deciding factor was). Not that he wouldn't have come otherwise, of course; Matt and he might have had a bit of bad blood between them in the past, but that was all that it was, past. He didn't know most of the people who attended; they weren't industry people, thank God, just Matt's cousins and friends and colleagues and some people that Orlando knew through Elijah. It seemed not all of them knew who he was either, although quite a few of the women and some of the men too, took a long look at him when being introduced.

“That's just 'cos you're too damned gorgeous for your own good,” Elijah whispered into Orlando's ear when he had asked Elijah in bewilderment why everyone was staring at him like that. “Especially now that you've put on a bit weight.”

Again the weight thing. Orlando gave his friend a look.

“So it's not because of the modelling thing?”

“Love, these people don't know Gisele Bündchen from Kate Moss.”

Orlando had turned up in an old Star Wars t-shirt and long shorts that ended around his knees, bringing wine and flowers (Matt had specifically asked everyone not to bring him anything, but of course everyone did.) There was a fire going somewhere along the beach, and Orlando was half convinced that some sort of safety official would turn up any minute now. Elijah claimed him that he had bribed them and they would turn a blind eye to a little bonfire as long as they kept it little.

Orlando threw him a look as they trudged through the sand. “What's with all this bribery, Lij? You going into politics perhaps?”

“Very funny,” Elijah said and tickle-attacked him until Orlando almost pee'd himself laughing and had to beg for mercy. He pulled off his tennis shoes, because they were full of sand, and dangled them in his hand as they traipsed down the waterline. It would be just his luck to lose his shoes in the waves.

“So what did you get him?” Orlando asked after a moment's silence, because there was no way Elwood would ever forego an opportunity to get somebody something, giving and generous as he was.

“A piercing,” Elijah said, and something about his smirk made Orlando narrow his eyes. He stopped walking, the waves now gently lapping at his toes and looked at Elijah curiously.

“A piercing? What kind?”

“Tongue.” Definitely smirking now.

Orlando still looked dubious. “I didn't take him for a tongue piercing type of bloke,” he said slowly, “what with his job as a stockbroker and all.”

“Not for him. It's for me,” Elijah said, sticking out his tongue, and Orlando finally caught on.

“You have a bloody dirty mind, you know that,” he told his friend, and grabbed him into headlock just to muss his hair because Elijah hated that. Elijah screamed girlishly and tackled Orlando bodily down onto the sand, and they rolled over almost into the water, both young men struggling to come out on top. Matt came to break up their wrestling match before both men got sand in places they didn't want sand in, and offered Orlando a bottle of Evian while Elijah accepted a beer. Elijah glanced at his wristwatch and threw a look to his partner.

Orlando smiled and gratefully accepted the water; he hadn't drunk much alcohol since he’d been to the pub with Barry that one night in London, and then it had been just one pint of lager. Getting wasted no longer appealed like it used to. Many of the things that used to appeal no longer held any fascination.

“You done wrestling?” Matt asked, and mussed Elijah's hair some more just to rile him up. Lij glared murder at his partner and tried to tidy up his hair, having little success; small grains of sand clung to his curls, lending him the appearance of an annoyed chipmunk who'd taken a roll in some kid's sandbox. Orlando tried his own hair and found it in much better state, and smiled smugly.

“Pretty much,” Orlando said, grinning, and followed the two men to the house, trailing a little behind. It was getting darker now, and the breeze coming from the ocean was salty, and comforting.

Elijah and Matt laughed at something, and Matt wrapped an arm around his partner's shoulders as they walked, and Orlando smiled at their good humour. He didn't get the same feelings of jealousy with them that he'd got with Andrea, and he thought it was because he had long thought that neither he nor Andrea would ever settle down to go steady with someone, and now his friend suddenly was. Elijah, on the other hand, had always been keen on settling down with the right man, and had only scoffed at Orlando's sexual escapades, content with what he had; a partner and a shared home.

The evening was lovely and balmy, and it was nice to be among friendly people, but he couldn't help the feeling that it was also lacking somehow. The patio had several chairs and some tables set for the party attenders, and Orlando leaned his hip on one of the tables, watching Matt's friend manning the barbecue grill at the end of the patio. He was just thinking he might try a hamburger with some beer when he was alerted to someone coming; Elijah and Matt both turned to look past him, over his shoulder, at somebody, Elijah's face breaking into a sunny grin.

“Hi, happy birthday.”

The voice was both strange and familiar, and Orlando turned over as if in a dream. Only it was better than a dream, because everything was happening for real.

Viggo looked beautiful, dressed in a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of khakis, and Orlando's stomach made a slow somersault at the sight of him. He was carrying his car keys and a bottle of wine.

“Thanks, man.” Matt and Viggo shared an one armed hug that many American men do upon meeting, and Matt made a face as he was handed yet another bottle of wine; not to be ungrateful, but because not only hadn't he asked for anything, he'd asked for nothing.

Elijah crowed a triumphant, “Told you so! When you tell people to bring nothing, they always bring wine. And it's nice that you could make it, Vig.”

“Thanks for the invite,” Viggo said, and then looked over at Orlando, who was standing beside Elijah with his water bottle in hand and his heart in his mouth.

Orlando toyed with his bottle, immensely glad he had something to occupy himself with, lest he do or say something unwise, like launch himself at Viggo and snog the man senseless in front of all these people. He also wasn't sure whether he wanted to smack or kiss Elijah for not telling him that he'd also invited Viggo; it was obvious that it hadn't just slipped his mind but his sneaky friend had planned this all along. Maybe he should kiss Lij, because he doubted that meeting Viggo would have been made any easier by any long preparation; probably it would've just made it harder. He'd already prepared himself for over three months, besides.

“Hi,” Viggo said, and Orlando's stomach was done somersaulting, and was now full of butterflies, instead.

“Hi, you,” Orlando said, and stepped into Viggo's embrace like it was the most natural thing in the world, Viggo's arms closing around him, and Viggo's cheek brushing against his, more bristly than Orlando's smooth one.

It was a friendly hug, and Orlando didn't allow himself to cling onto him like he wanted to, but stepped back. He was faintly aware that he was smiling and didn't seem to be able to stop. Viggo stared at him as though seeing him for the first time, and Orlando could have sworn that the very air crackled around them. It could have been the grill, too.

“You didn't bring Henry?” Elijah asked, and now Orlando turned to look at him, incredulous, because he had forgotten that there were other people present, and since when did Elijah know Viggo's son?

Viggo rubbed at his neck. “He had some sort of fraternity thing tonight that he couldn't get out of,” he said, “but he says hi.”

Orlando shifted his weight from one foot to another, feeling like an outsider all of a sudden. Elijah had told him that he considered Viggo his friend now, but he hadn't in any way indicated that their friendship included meeting and getting to know Henry.

Elijah caught Orlando looking at him and raised his eyebrows quizzically. Orlando deliberately looked away and took a sip of his water, annoyed at himself for being so selfish. Since when did he get to dictate who any of his friends befriended? Still, it stung to be excluded.

“Too bad,” Elijah said. “I thought there would be a few people here that he would have liked to meet.”

Orlando caught him and Viggo sharing a look, and all of a sudden something clicked into place, why Elijah had been so adamant that he had to come, and be on his best behaviour (although he didn't need to warn for any of that) and not leave after a perfunctory appearance. Meeting Viggo's son quite out of the blue was something of a scary idea, but he appreciated the thought behind the scheme. He was quite curious about Henry in fact, especially after meeting his mother.

Viggo was looking at him again, and Orlando gave him a small smile. There were some things that he hadn't remembered, despite having thought of little other than Viggo all these months; that they were of equal height, that while Viggo was heavier than Orlando he still was quite lean, his angular face made even more attractive by the months of separation. He suddenly ached with the knowledge that he might never make love to this man.

“So,” Elijah said loudly, catching the little byplay between the two men, and glancing meaningfully at his partner. “Matt, you need to come to the kitchen with me to check the cake.”

Matt's face was incredulous. “Cake?!” He had specifically requested no presents, no decorations, and under no circumstances, cake, being one of the non-cake people himself. Elijah's eyes almost bugged in emphasis as he tried to wordlessly convey his underlying message, and Matt caught on after a moment's gawking. “Oh, right, the cake! Yeah, totally, see you in a few, guys. Viggo, have something to drink.”

He waved his hand in the direction of the tub filled with ice cubes and various bottles containing soft drinks and beer. Elijah almost chased him inside the house, leaving the two men and some of the other guests out on the patio; the others were eating and drinking and socialising, but to Orlando they didn't even exist right now . Viggo stuck his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, looking a bit bemused.

Orlando had to take another sip of his water to keep from laughing at Elijah playing Cupid; he'd already moved past wanting to smack him, although he thought that payback would be a bitch. At least Elijah had brought the two of them together. Orlando wasn't sure how long he had planned to wait to call Viggo, despite what Andrea had said. It seemed that he had developed a case of nerves when it came to Viggo, and now, standing with him like this in close proximity, face to face and with no-one to chaperone them, he wasn't sure whether to fight or flee. His instincts were screaming at him to carpe diem, but his primal brain warned him against a situation that could turn his life upside down.

“I doubt we'll be seeing any cake tonight,” Viggo said dryly, but he was smiling. “What do you think?”

Orlando laughed and shook his head. “Definitely no cake,” he said, and then looked Viggo over, taking his time to appreciate the vista properly. Damn, but he was a beautiful thing to behold. Suddenly Orlando wanted to kiss him, and couldn't drag his eyes from Viggo's mouth. “You're looking good.”

Understatement of the year. Daniel Craig had nothing on Viggo, beaten up or not.

“You look good, too,” Viggo said carefully. “No bruises, and no casts.”

Oh, that's right. Viggo had last seen him in that dreadful hospital bed.

“So you weren't referring to the fact that I've gained weight,” Orlando said, smiling a little. Still looking at Viggo's mouth, still imagining the kiss. “That's pretty much the first thing Lij said to me. 'OB, you got fat.'”

“I wasn't referring to that, but you do look beautiful. Small surprise.” Viggo's mouth twisted a little. “I know you're not fond of people going on about your looks, so I won't. I'm just really glad to see you, babe.”

“Am I still 'babe'?” Orlando asked, his stomach now doing a credible imitation of free fall, and then took another long gulp from his bottle to keep from launching into a torrent of babble.

He guessed he did owe Viggo an explanation, but not before they'd established some sort of rapport and he knew where he stood. If Viggo wanted to be friends, or if he wanted to be more, of if he was here just out of obligation for Elijah.

Viggo coloured a little, and hesitated only for the briefest of moments. “Until you tell me otherwise.”

Orlando swallowed. “Not telling you otherwise,” he admitted softly, and was rewarded with a smile from Viggo. At the look of that smile, his heart melted all the way. Viggo had to be so nervous about coming here; Orlando didn't think he'd have the courage if their roles were reversed. He couldn't take his eyes off Viggo's mouth, thinking how much he wanted to kiss him. How much he wanted Viggo to lean over and kiss him back.

“There's something I want to tell you,” he said to Viggo. “Will you hear me out? Please? I hope I don't get too long-winded about it.”

Viggo nodded. “Of course.”

Orlando put his water bottle away and took a gentle hold of Viggo's arm and pulled him along, down the small set of stairs and away from the patio in the direction of the beach; he didn't intend to have an audience for what he thought would follow. They walked alongside each other until they reached the now dying fire, and Orlando moved a bit closer to better enjoy the heat that still emanated from the embers. It was almost dark now, and the glowing coals painted everything in red and gold. He glanced at Viggo to ensure that he had his full attention – he did, Viggo was looking at him very intently – and then started to speak, first a bit hesitantly but gaining confidence as he went on.

“I may not have any right to start explaining myself but I'd like to say this. I wouldn't have called myself a head case by the time that I went back to England,” he said. “I thought that I was a bit troubled, perhaps, but no more so than any other person who had been brutally assaulted. And yet underneath I thought I deserved everything that I'd got. I'm saying underneath because I would have denied thinking that way to my last breath, but it was still there. Without Michael I might still be thinking that way.”

“Michael?” Viggo asked, and Orlando wanted to detect something more than simple curiosity at his tone.

“He's my psychologist,” Orlando said, not wanting to create any misunderstandings. “When I came back to L.A. I realised that this isn't really my home anymore,” he said, apropos to nothing.

“Neither is England, by the way, although I did have a good time there. But I was still just visiting. I guess once you leave your mother's house you can never really go back. And I was actually dreading coming back to L.A,, because I think that deep down somewhere I knew that going back to my place wasn't the same as going home.”

Viggo looked like he was going to interrupt, so Orlando held up his hand to show that he wasn't finished. He shivered in the gentle breeze, wishing that he had Viggo's arms around him. His friends always teased him for being constantly cold, even in L.A.

“But I'm different now, too. I've been through more than I thought I could bear, and I'm still standing, beaten up, yeah, but still standing.”

Again Viggo looked like he wanted to say something, but out of respect for Orlando who wasn't finished yet, he stayed silent. Orlando stared into the embers, his heart now in his throat again, but he knew that he needed to say those words, if not for anything else than because Viggo deserved to hear the truth.

“I've been surrounded by family and feeling like there is still something vital missing, and it's been tearing me apart. All I know is that there is one voice and one face that haunts me. One pair of arms that once held me like I'd finally found where I belonged. And I've finally realised that it's not weakness wanting to be in those arms, or wanting to hear that voice speaking my name again. So I guess this actually is a very long-winded way of saying that I'm sorry I pushed you away, and I love you, and that even though I can't know it for sure, I think, no, I believe that my home is wherever you are.”

Orlando had to blink, and his voice was noticeably hoarser when he finished. “And I know I have no right to assume anything, but I'm hoping that you might feel the same, and forgive me for hurting you.”

Orlando turned to face Viggo fully, opening his arms with a hopeful little smile, and for one heart stopping moment nothing happened. Then he felt his breath leave him in a big huff as Viggo took him into his arms, squeezing him tight and whispering his name into his hair. Orlando felt his feet momentarily leave the ground, and then he was on his own feet again, and his arms wound around Viggo's body, anchoring him tightly against him.

Viggo's lips sought and found his, and Orlando gave without reserve, pouring all his longing into the kiss to tell Viggo once and for all how he felt, and what he wanted. He'd never felt that naked, that bare, before, but for Viggo to have caught him after his leap into the unknown was like a revelation.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Viggo said vehemently, still not letting go of him, and Orlando shamelessly clung onto him like he had wanted to do ever since seeing him. “The things you went through, God, I can't even imagine. I'm sorry I wasn't able to support you better.”

Orlando shook his head. None of the blame belonged to Viggo.

“It's not your fault, love. I needed to do it this way,” he said. “But I didn't want to hurt you, and I'm sorry that I did. I thought you must hate me for just leaving and not calling, but... I couldn't.”

“Just for the record, I fucking love you,” Viggo said into his hair, his voice on the verge of breaking, and Orlando had to laugh because they were both crying like a pair of babies. They were making quite a spectacle of themselves, but it didn't matter at all; it wasn't as if anyone could hear what they were saying, let alone see that they were both a bit tearful. All they could see from the distance – if their eyes were sharp enough despite the darkness – he reckoned, was two blokes finally getting to where they belonged. Together.

“I was so afraid that you'd forgotten about me or that you didn't want to see me again because you'd have every right to feel like that. I'm so sorry.”

Viggo kissed him long and hard to abuse him of that notion, and Orlando was very well persuaded that he'd been neither forgotten nor unwanted in any way, shape or form. Orlando's hands gripped Viggo's biceps to keep from swooning, and it felt like the only thing that was keeping him upright. Viggo didn't seem to be holding up much better, and Orlando thought they would soon end up in a heap on the sand; not that he would mind, as long as they didn't drown.

“I guess you'd had that bottled up for quite some time,” Viggo said after he'd finally relinquished Orlando's lips. He ran his hand down the side of Orlando's face, his thumb catching briefly on Orlando's lower lip, now swollen from their kisses. Orlando turned his head to follow the fingers, not willing to cut that intimate contact. “You could've just called me, you know.”

“I know, but.” Orlando tried to find the words to explain, and found that he couldn't. “I can't explain it, but I needed this time away to sort my head. I was in a really bad place when I left. I'm sorry I didn't call. I should have.”

“It's okay,” Viggo assured him, and Orlando was glad to see that all the hesitation was gone. “And just to get this straight, I'm fucking proud of you, too. I didn't have the chance to tell you that, before.”

His hand found Orlando's, and threaded their fingers together. Orlando squeezed his hand, thankful for the vote of confidence. His thumb stroked along Viggo's hand as he replied, “Thank you. I do appreciate it. More than you know, actually.”

They spent a comfortable moment in silence, enjoying the warm evening and the darkness and the other's nearness. Orlando thought he could spend all night with Viggo out on the beach. It wouldn't be the ideal place for lovemaking, he thought, but they would make do.

“So, what would you say to leaving the party and going home?” Viggo finally asked, and started to steer Orlando back to the house, Orlando assumed to say goodbye to their hosts. Orlando anticipated a smug look on Elijah's face and had to admit that his friend would deserve to feel a bit smug after pulling a stunt like this, and not having it backfire.

“Home?” Orlando asked, searching for Viggo's eyes for any possible hidden meanings. He hopped over a piece of driftwood, noticing suddenly that he still had no shoes on. Small things like that never seemed to register when he was with Viggo.

Viggo nodded. “If you want, that is, if you don't think it's too soon, I can help you pack the things that you need and take you to my place. There's a room in there with your name on it.”

“It had better not be the guest room,” Orlando said, only half-kidding, still searching Viggo's face for clues.

“Nope, the master bedroom. You'll have a room-mate though.”

“I guess I can live with that.”

Orlando raised his head when they reached the patio and saw that Elijah was standing in the doorway, with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“You know, guys, I appreciate the fact that you are in love and all,” he drawled. “But keep it family friendly, yeah? Or go get a room.”

“I thought there was room enough out here,” Orlando dead-panned, indicating the patio around them, moulding his body against Viggo's in a way that raised inappropriate thoughts in the minds of everyone who saw them, and not the least in Viggo's.

Elijah made a mock-gagging noise and disappeared from the doorway when Viggo and Orlando locked lips again, but once inside the house and out of their sight, he punched the air with his fist, letting out a triumphant whisper, “Yes!”.

“You don't think you'll get bad vibes from going back to my place?” Viggo asked, stroking the side of Orlando's face with the backs of his fingers, like he couldn't get enough of touching Orlando. “I should have thought about that before. Joaquín did attack you there.”

The wide dark eyes that gazed back into his held no traces of fear, or indecision. Orlando shook his head. Those ghosts had been long banished. “No. And if I do, you'll be there with me, right?”

“Every step of the way, babe.”

“Then I'll be fine.”

* * *

The story continues (click here)

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 7b/8

2013-06-23T18:05:11Z

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 7a/8

2013-06-10T04:58:39Z

Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs* Feedback is very much appreciated. :) Additional note: Thanks to RL obligations I will have to change my posting schedule a bit; the next update will be posted in two weeks. I apologise for any inconvenience.

Previous chapters

Orlando's second trip to the Emergency Room saw him in a much worse state than the previous occasion.

The list of his injuries made grim reading; concussion, lacerated scalp, massive bruising around the throat and neck, slight damage to the vocal chords and a communited fracture to the left arm, just to list the physical damage. Orlando slept badly, or not at all, and he was exhausted emotionally almost as much as physically.

His arm required several operations, so his second stay in the hospital was a lot longer than the first one, extending over a week and a half, and this time Orlando didn't even have to think about suing; Joaquín was charged with assault, and the police were looking into the previous incidents as well.

He was transferred from the Emergency Room to a general care facility as soon as his state of health permitted it, and he was glad because it meant that the worst had to be over, even though it didn't feel like it.

He was in pain; often, and a lot, and he had constant nightmares about getting hooked on drugs again, waking up drenched in sweat, and shivering. He lied through his teeth more than once when a nurse checking on him asked if he was feeling any pain. It would have been so easy and tempting to say yes; yes to the painkillers and yes to the drugged state of mind and body, but Orlando knew that road and knew it didn't lead to any place he cared to go.

There were other nightmares too; nightmares where Viggo didn't come home in time, and Joaquín closed in with his eyes glaring murder, and he woke up gasping for breath, the last lingering image of the nightmare one where there was no-one to stop Joaquín's final blow from falling. Nightmares where the man strangling him had a changing face, and it was Davide, Joaquín, Elijah, Andrea and Viggo all rolled into one, and having to see the faces of the people he loved on his would-be-murderer was the worst part, the part that jolted him awake in the deep of the night and made him swear that he would never sleep again.

He got to know the nurses most often on night-shift, and was almost pathetically grateful for the fact that to them he was just another patient, not a famous model, or a celebrity.

After his transferral Viggo came to see him, and Orlando accepted a careful kiss on his cheek. It still hurt to move, and he was feeling particularly fragile after the assault. Viggo came in wearing a white button down shirt and the ever present khakis, and he was a sight for sore eyes for Orlando who hadn't seen him for over a week.

“I tried to come in every day before this,” Viggo said, “but they said that no visitors were allowed.”
Orlando nodded. He knew it had something to do with the several operations and the infection risk, but hadn't dwelt on it too much. He had been glad, in a way, for the alone time, because he didn't feel he had it in him to show a brave face to anyone.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “There's a chair somewhere under all that stuff. You can just put it all away on the floor. I'll ask Jennifer to take those away.”

The room was overflowing with flowers and stuffed animals that Orlando had already made Jennifer promise to donate to a children's ward; they would appreciate them far more than he did. There were stacks of Get-Well-Soon cards, as well as several unwrapped parcels that Orlando was in no hurry to open. This time it had all leaked to the public, and his assistant, as well as his publicist and his manager all had their work cut out for them dealing with the onslaught. Orlando didn't want to talk to the press; on that he was adamant. He was in no state of mind to start opening up about the experience. Thankfully the hospital had good security, and there had been no successful attempts by the media to come and see him.

Viggo had brought him chocolate, and Orlando had to smile at the thought. He did love chocolate, even if he got to indulge all too rarely.

They talked about this and that, dancing around the issue that was foremost in both their minds, and then Viggo said that he'd talked with some of the detectives that were looking into Orlando's case. Joaquín had been taken into custody, and appeared to be quite talkative; apparently they had already found out some things that helped figure out a possible motive. Viggo looked very serious, and Orlando thought he looked like he hadn't slept for a week. Or two.

Orlando bit his lip. “Do you know why, Viggo? Why did he want me gone that badly?”

Viggo sighed. “From what I gather, Joaquín was Davide's boyfriend by the time he – Davide, that is - took an interest in you. When you two became an item, Davide dumped Joaquín. Which sowed the first seeds of hate. The fact that you were more successful professionally just added to his jealousy, as did the fact that your relationship was very public from the get-go.”

He rubbed at his mouth with his palm, as though the words in themselves were distasteful.

“He tried to ruin my face,” Orlando said bleakly. “I told the police about that one too. And they were already investigating the sauna incident anyway. And all this because he was jealous?”

It was hard to believe that. How could anyone hate him that badly, when they didn't even know him? Orlando hadn't stolen Davide, just like he hadn't stolen Viggo.

Viggo nodded, looking like it didn't make any more sense to him, either. “Jealousy, hate... He seems to have thought that if he could get you out of the way then I'd want to start anew with him. It is unbelievable, but it's true.”

He searched Orlando's eyes with his own, but Orlando found he couldn't meet his gaze.

“And... was he trying to frame Davide for my murder? I mean, the roses, and the hit and run attempt in a car that looked like Davide's?”

Viggo nodded. “I suppose so.”

“Well, I fell for that one. I guess when you have a violent ex it's not all that difficult to make you believe they'd try to kill you.” Orlando let out a humourless laugh. “I did believe that. Maybe I shouldn't have but I did. After all we'd been through I honestly thought he'd be capable of anything.”

“I gather you had some pretty bad times with him.”

Orlando's mouth twisted. “Together we were poison. I was addicted to anything that gets you high. And he saw me as his personal property, his – plaything he could show off and use whenever he felt like it. But I guess that still doesn't make him a murderer. He hit me a few times and enjoyed throwing me around, but that's all.”

Viggo's hand had balled into a fist, and he deliberately loosened it. “You can't imagine how sorry I am, babe. Half the reason for Joaquín going crazy was the fact that I took an interest in you. I'm so sorry.”

Orlando shook his head. “Not your fault. Not mine either, I think. Just incredibly bad luck. Or bad timing. I don't know.”

Viggo's hand reached for his, but Orlando pulled his hand back before they touched.

“Please don't.”

“Orlando...” Viggo looked like he wanted to try and take his hand again, or touch him anywhere, just to kill the distance.

Orlando couldn't let him, because he knew he would just shatter, and he was feeling fragile enough already.

“I'm taking some time off from working. That's pretty much given, of course, since I couldn't do any work right now even if I wanted to. And I don't want to be in the public eye.” Orlando couldn't look at Viggo, so he looked out of the window instead. It was a lovely, sunny day, like it almost always was in L.A. This time they had put him into a room that had a proper view, at least. “I'm going back to England as soon as they let me out of here, which I believe is the day after tomorrow. I called Mum the other night and Jennifer booked the ticket.”

Viggo looked surprised at this, and then frowned. “Is it okay for you to go? I mean with the police?”

Orlando nodded. The detectives had questioned him as soon as he felt well enough to see them, and after Viggo had also given his statement, the deputy district attorney had agreed with the detectives in that while Orlando had caused severe damage to his assailant's eye and face, he had been acting in self-defence and had only used reasonable force; and wouldn't be facing charges for assault.

“Yeah. I'm good to go. I gave them my mother's address and they have my number if they need to contact me before the trial.”

“How long do you plan to stay?” Viggo asked, and Orlando was glad he wasn't looking at him at that moment. Why make this more difficult for either of them?

”She said she'd love to have me for the summer if not longer. I'll come back for the hearings and the trial and anything else they need me for. I just can't stay here right now.”

“I'm sure your mother will be happy to have you home,” Viggo said, and it was obvious to Orlando that he wanted to say something else altogether.

“Yeah, I'm sure it'll be great,” Orlando said, still staring out of the window. Good God, but this was difficult, and not made any easier by the knowledge that Viggo was staring at him, imploring him to meet his eyes. “It's just what I need. To get away from here.”

Viggo looked at him in silence for a moment. “Can I call you?”

Orlando shook his head, and had to blink rapidly. Not going to cry. “I need to get some distance to this whole thing. I think it'd be better if we took some time apart too. I'm just not in the right state of mind to start anything or to be with anyone. I don't think it'd be good for either of us.” God, I hope you understand, he wanted to say, but couldn't, because he had no right to be begging for sympathy.

“If that's what you need. Like you said, bad timing.” Viggo was staring into his hands, the walls between them higher than ever, and Orlando wished he could take Viggo's hand, could offer some comfort or even some hope, but he daren't say anything.

“Goodbye, Orlando,” Viggo said, and Orlando still couldn't look at him, not even when Viggo rose to leave, and left the room.

He was poison, and it was best for all if he left before any more damage could be done.

* * *

Orlando's birthday fell on the day of his release from the hospital, and the presents had been pouring in since a few days before the actual date; it seemed that he had a lot of fans who wanted to cheer him up. Jennifer helped him with collecting all the parcels and cleaning the room of the flowers and other gifts, because Orlando hated the thought of being a nuisance and causing other people extra work. Jennifer reminded him that he was wearing a cast, and looked like a gust of wind would blow him over, but allowed him to help after Orlando gave her a mulish look that she knew all too well.

Orlando celebrated his birthday at his mother's house in Canterbury after the day of his arrival, badly jet-lagged but feeling like he had shaken something off that was only detectable now that it was gone. She had made him a chocolate cake, because it was his favourite, and it was just the two of them, and Orlando appreciated the peace and quiet. Sonia told him that she had thought about inviting his aunts and some of the cousins, but had ditched that idea immediately upon reflecting on his condition and how tired he must be. Orlando hadn't slept on the flight over, and told his mother that he appreciated the thoughtfulness more than she knew.

He blew out the single candle that Sonia had placed on the cake, and made a silent wish.

His mother had got him a sweater that was too big – she gave Orlando a hard time about being too thin – but Orlando assured her that he liked it and it was fine and it was all just hospital food and he'd be better in no time. Sonia cried at the thought of her baby having been in the hospital and how she hadn't been able to be there for him, because she remembered the time when it had been his back that had been broken, and how hard it had been for him to lie in that horrible hospital bed day in and day out.

“It's okay, mum,” he assured her, and allowed her to hold him. “It's okay. I'm out of there now, aren't I? It'll get better. Just wait and see.”

She looked at her son and hoped that he was right for his own sake, but the look in his eyes did nothing to reassure her. This wasn't the sunny, smiling Orlando that she knew and loved; this was an empty-eyed stranger, still very dear and beloved, but very much changed, and she hated the world that had made him so.

* * *

At Sonia's suggestion, he went to see a psychologist. At first, he was apprehensive and slightly suspicious, because he wasn't sure he could open up to a complete stranger at the drop of a hat, and wasn't certain he needed his head shrunk anyway, but after the first visit which they spent getting to know each other a little better, Orlando decided that he had nothing to lose. There was a lot of baggage he was carrying from his teenage years, and it was dragging him down.

He poured out a barrage of doubt, and questions, questions he had never before dared voice even to himself, and the psychologist looked at him seriously.

“You're looking for answers, Orlando,” he finally said. “I believe you'll find this is the place for even more questions. Are you ready to deal with that?”

Orlando swallowed. He was quite used to boldly entering any new situation, but he wasn't introspective by nature, and therefore the question he had just been asked wasn't exactly rhetoric. Who knew what he would find?

“Yeah,” he finally said, and met the psychologist 's eyes. “I am. Although I'm not sure this is the right place for me. I don't really like to talk about myself."

The psychologist wrote something down and then looked at Orlando seriously. “Can you tell me why?”

Orlando was quiet for a long time. “I don't know what others want to hear. Who they want me to be. So I'd rather say nothing and let them tell me.”

The psychologist was a man named Michael Evans, a middle-aged and balding father of three and a cat-owner, and he was of such a disposition that to Orlando's amazement it wasn't embarrassing at all to spend most of the second visit bawling his eyes out.

There was so much hurt inside him that he had never paused to even consider before; so many regrets, and disappointments, that he had buried so deep it had taken several near-death experiences, leaving the man he had fallen for, and going back home to bring them to the surface, including his deep-seated conviction that his face and his body were all he had to offer to a partner.

“Is that what you truly believe?” Michael asked him, and Orlando let out a bitter little laugh.

“I don't know. No-one's ever asked for anything more. Sure, I'm good company. Or was, back when I was high all the time. The party boy. And I had the money to support the habit. And it didn't hurt that I went along with the sex most of the time. Or that I was good-looking.”

The last bit was said derisively, and Orlando wondered for the first time if he despised the people who had fallen for him for his face alone. Anyone could be beautiful. Anyone could work out to get the perfect body. It took a lot more than that to be a worthwhile partner, or a friend. It seemed none of his previous conquests had cared for any of that.

“I understand that the fashion industry isn't exactly lacking in beautiful people. Do you think all of your partners have only been attracted by the superficial attributes?” Michael asked.

Orlando was sitting on an armchair, his legs crossed at the ankles. He scrunched up his brow in thought. There hadn't been that many serious partners to consider, actually, but Orlando mentally counted the more casual conquests that hadn't stuck around after a night or two spent together, and they were many.

“I don't know about partners,” he finally said. “But I've made a few friends. I don't think they particularly care about what I look like. My lovers certainly were drawn to me because of my face. I don't know why they stayed. Although most didn't.”

Michael again made some notes on his writing pad, and Orlando wished he could take a peek at what he'd written down. He hoped it didn't read 'head case'. It was one thing to think of oneself as somewhat troubled, and another thing entirely to be labelled as such by a professional. Michael didn't seem to find him too deranged, though; he mostly seemed to think that Orlando's biggest problem was low self-esteem. Orlando wanted to assure him that he didn't think he was shit, but eventually thought it best to let his psychologist come to the same conclusion himself.

Michael then changed the subject from Orlando's failed relationships. “Orlando, by what you've told me, you have stopped drinking and using drugs altogether since last autumn.”

Orlando nodded. “I've had a few drinks, but nothing like I used to. I still take the pills for my back when I need them, but that's all. So more or less, yeah.”

Michael looked at him, as if prompting Orlando to say more. When he didn't, he asked, “Do you give yourself any credit for that?”

Orlando stared at him, perplexed, because it hadn't even once occurred to him that he could be proud of anything that pertained to his addictions. “You mean give myself credit for stopping acting like a bum?”

Michael nodded. “It's not an easy thing that you did. Especially as you were also recovering from your relationship ending around the same time.”

“Well, I... I hadn't thought about it quite that way,” Orlando finally said. “Do you think that's something I should be proud of?”

“It takes an extraordinary amount of dedication and will power, to do that. I think you have every reason to be proud of yourself, and your accomplishment.” Michael smiled at him, and then sobered again. “The running theme in your stories, the way you tell them, is your belief that you're weak. You don't feel that you can rely on yourself. I believe that at least on this account, you don't give yourself enough credit. Which makes me think that there are other things you haven't given yourself credit for.”

Orlando took this in, and then they changed subject. But he gave it a lot of thought during the next weeks. It was true that he never paid much heed to his accomplishments. He'd moved to the States, leaving behind everything and everyone he knew and loved, and built himself a successful career. One could say that he'd slept with enough men to make that happen, but nobody made a career by just sleeping with the right people. His career wasn’t just due to his face or body, either, although they naturally were important factors; he had worked hard to make the connections, and to build his professional image.

And yes, he had dumped the abusive boyfriend, and stopped boozing and doing drugs. Stopped taking the easy way out. Started even getting his life back on track when the bad things started to happen. Started to build something meaningful with a new person, something that hadn't ever happened before. Had defended himself when someone tried to hurt him.

How could he still see himself as nothing more than a fuck-up? Michael didn't have to ask him this question, because Orlando asked it himself. He didn't have an answer ready, but he let the thought take root, and for the first time in ages he felt he could have some hope for the future.

He told Michael about the nightmares that had continued but thankfully lessened in frequency since he left L.A., and Michael asked him if he could consider a sleeping aid to help him get some rest. Orlando considered the question, and had to bury his face in his hands when the old fear of getting addicted again reared its ugly head.

“I'm talking about a very mild sleeping tablet, Orlando, something entirely non-addictive and available over the counter in Boots,” Michael said. “I believe that coupled with the therapy it could benefit you greatly. Fatigue and depression act in some cases as fuel for one another. Removing one from the equation helps us combat the other more effectively.”

'Mild' and 'over the counter' were reassuring words, Orlando thought, but on their own, they weren't quite enough to convince him.

“If you think that's best?” Orlando said, but Michael shook his head.

“Your decision, Orlando. You decide what goes in your body.”

Orlando considered this, and then a hesitant smile appeared on his face. “In that case, let's try it. I do want to sleep. I'm just so afraid I'll have another one of those nightmares as soon as I do.”

“I know they are frightening,” Michael said. “But they are still just dreams. They can never hurt you. I trust that by dealing with the issues that most frighten you in your everyday life, the nightmares will soon disappear; they are just reflections of the disturbances within. I can't promise they'll disappear overnight, but they will do so gradually.”

To his own surprise, Orlando believed him.

* * *

Orlando had picked up his mobile phone at least a dozen times during the past weeks, and only at the last minute refrained from calling Viggo, but called Jennifer, or Elijah, or Andrea, instead. He wasn't fit to be in Viggo's life – at least, not yet – and he should at least have the decency not to drag him down with him.

Joaquín had broken down and confessed all; the hit and run attempt, the acid in Orlando's cleansing milk, even locking Orlando into the gym sauna. That was the only good piece of news from across the pond that had reached Orlando so far. Elijah called most weeks, just to catch up, but out of an unspoken agreement they hadn't broached the subject of Viggo. Viggo hadn't called, out of courtesy for Orlando's request or because he'd lost interest, Orlando couldn't say.

He'd told him not to call, after all. He hadn't said goodbye. He had removed himself from Viggo's life and his world, and he could have no expectations. It burned, it fucking burned to know that he might never have a chance to be with him again, but deep down, he knew he'd done the right thing. He needed to find his own strength before he could borrow another's.

He didn't want anyone else to pick up the pieces this time; he had to learn to do that himself. How much self-esteem and pride could he ever hope to have if he always went running and crying back to Viggo? He had to learn to be self-reliant. He couldn't do that if he let Viggo – or anyone else, for that matter – solve his problems for him, or chase away his demons.

* * *

“I was flattered when he started to court me,” Orlando said. “Can you imagine? I thought that I didn't have that much of a reputation yet, and everyone knew him. And he was handsome and sophisticated, and his family owned a fucking castle in France.”

“Do these things mean a lot to you?” Michael asked. “Status, and outward signs of success?”

Orlando shook his head, and then reconsidered. “Right now I'd say they don't mean much anything at all. But they did then. I was really impressed. I couldn't imagine why he chose me of all people. And I didn't give a shit about him already being involved with someone. I figured that it wasn't my boyfriend, so why should I care.”

His mouth twisted, and he uncrossed his ankles, and then crossed them again. The armchair he was seated in had become his favourite, the one place where he could be as honest as he liked, and not have to fear being thrown out. Michael had yet to look surprised or otherwise perturbed at anything he had to say.

“What a piece of shit I was. It didn't once occur to me that I should care about anyone else other than myself.” He bit on his thumb, and reflected on that statement. “And what an idiot. I couldn't see past the name and the rep and that fucking castle.”

“Have you changed your view?” Michael asked. Orlando nodded wordlessly. “And what made you change it?”

Orlando gave him a droll look. “The boyfriend that I chose to ignore tried to kill me,” he said, deadpan. “Not saying that he was justified. The bloke's severely disturbed and I doubt it's all my doing. I just think that I'm not entirely blameless in this. I thought before that I didn't steal Davide and I didn't steal Viggo from him, but I'm starting to wonder. Call me conceited but I do know how blokes react to me. I didn't give a shit that Davide had a boyfriend, and I didn't much care if Viggo was involved with someone, other than the fact that I was jealous about it.”

And he had been jealous. Not just because of a possessive streak, but because he had cared for Viggo. And look how that had ended.

“Orlando,” Michael said. “I understand your need for catharsis, and these self-discoveries serve a purpose in your recovery. To an extent. Do you find it important to understand why Joaquín did what he did? Or your own role in it?”

“Of course I do,” Orlando said irritably. Why was Michael being so dense today? “Whether by bad luck or some other design I managed to get it on with both of the men that he'd had a relationship with. What a fucking nightmare. He didn't just target me out of the blue.”

“Why did he?”

“Because I'm a fucking piece of shit,” Orlando said, his voice rising. “Because I can't be bothered to care about anyone but myself. Who could blame the guy? Plenty of people would've --”

He buried his face in his hands after his outburst, embarrassed that he had lost his temper and horrified at what he almost had said. There was a lump in his throat but he forced himself to breathe. He reminded himself that there was a box of tissues placed right in front of them should he need them.

“Have you had any more nightmares?” Michael asked after giving Orlando a little while to collect himself.

“A few,” he said honestly, and couldn't withhold a small shiver. He had battled with himself long and hard on whether to try out the sleeping tablets that Michael had suggested, and had finally decided to give it a go. To his surprise, the nightmares hadn't made an appearance for a whole week, and had returned after that perhaps once a fortnight. However, the most recent one had been the worst one yet.

“Do you want to talk about them?” Michael asked, perceptive, and Orlando shuddered.

“In the dream he had my face,” he said quietly. “He was on top of me and looking down on me, his hands around my throat, and at first it was him and then... his face changed, and it was me.”

He couldn't find the words to convey the horror he had felt in the dream and upon waking, and how he had had to get up at three am to make tea, because there was no way he could ever go to sleep after that, sleeping pills or not. Sonia had woken sometime after five and joined him in the kitchen, not asking him why he was up and about so early but giving him a kiss on his cheek and putting the kettle on.

Michael nodded, and wrote something down. “Was that the only change to the previous dreams?”

Orlando scrunched up his face in thought. “No,” he said finally. “There was something else too. It wasn't Viggo's apartment, I think. I don't know if that means anything.”

“Insomuch that nightmares have a meaning,” Michael said, “the changes in the circumstances can be notable. Have you followed the dosage guidelines?”

“Yeah. It has helped. But I'm not going to continue taking them forever,” Orlando said seriously.

“I would strongly advise against 'forever' in any case,” Michael said dryly, and a very slight smile touched his lips. Orlando was surprised into a grin, because his unflappable psychologist had just cracked a joke. “Orlando. How important is it for your peace of mind to understand why Joaquín did what he did?”

“Very,” Orlando said promptly.

“I'm slightly concerned that in your need to understand you are taking other people's opinions of you and internalizing them,” Michael said. “And mainly other people's bad opinions of you. You have told me how you think others perceive you. Today you have used the same language yourself. I'm concerned because your word choices when you talk about yourself have taken a very negative turn in our last few appointments.”

Orlando stared into his hands, and took this in. “I told you when we started that I'm not good at talking about myself,” he started.

“You are not bad at talking,” Michael said. “You said that nothing you did justified Joaquín's actions. Do you believe that?”

“I'm not condoning murder attempts, and least of all mine,” Orlando said. “But I can't pretend that I had nothing to do with it.”

“Would you understand his actions if he had been targeting Viggo?”

Orlando's face flushed. “No.”

“And yet he too hurt Joaquín. As did Davide.”

“Yeah, but...” Orlando said, and then leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath, and looked at his psychologist across the small table. “You're saying I shouldn't hold myself to different standards.”

“I am saying that being understanding of someone who tried to hurt you is not required of you, Orlando, at least not at the expense of yourself. The need to understand is very... understandable.” Michael looked bemused at his lack of eloquence. “It's very human. But he cannot hurt you anymore. Only you can hurt you.”

Orlando refused to weep in front of Michael anymore – the man had seen enough of that to last him a lifetime – but he had to lean forward and snatch a tissue out of the box where it was placed on the table for the clients to use. He had shredded quite a few of them during the appointments; it seemed that his hands liked to have something to do while he was talking. Now, the sympathy in his psychologist's voice was enough to have his eyes filling, and he squeezed the tissue in his hand, deciding that he wouldn't cry.

“Is that why I'm dreaming of myself strangling me?” he asked. “It's not really a memory anymore, is it?”

He stood up and went to the window, and looked out. The view was of the small garden in front of the old brick building where Michael kept his practice, and which ended at the street. It was filled with rose bushes around a single cherry tree. There was a small pub in the neighbouring building where he had had lunch the other day after leaving his appointment. He had promised to go shopping with his mother today; Sonia wanted to buy some bushes for her garden, and had asked Orlando if he'd help planting them.

“I've done a pretty good job of sabotaging myself, haven't I,” he said, still not turning to face Michael. “The drugs. The partners that didn't give a shit about me. And now this. I'm supposed to be getting better and all I can think of is that I must be the most horrible human being alive for someone to want to hurt me that badly. If I weren't then he wouldn't have done what he did. Crazy logic, huh?”

Orlando was glad that his voice didn't tremble, but it was a near thing. Michael was looking at him kindly, his legal pad still perched on his knee where his right leg was placed on top of his left one. He had yet to change position, whereas Orlando had been rattled enough to leave his safe haven for the first time since he had come in all those weeks ago.

“Well, it is logical. You're trying to make sense of things. My only concern is that you seem to be blaming yourself for a lot that has happened. It is very common. The downside is that it is counterproductive to your well-being.” He shifted on his seat. “Bear with me for a moment for some psychology talk. There are roughly two main types of self-blame and you seem to fall somewhere in the middle of those two. Behavioural self-blame means that you think you should have acted differently, and therefore were at fault for what happened. By your own account, you seduced the two men in Joaquín's life, however unwittingly, and acted with little care or thought for another's feelings. You asked who could blame him for wanting to kill you.”

Orlando turned around, and crossed his arms on his chest, aware that it was a very defensive posture. He felt like Michael was lecturing him, even though he knew that Michael was only trying to make things clearer for him..

“Now, characterological self-blame means the belief that there is inherently something wrong with you, a character flaw which caused you to be assaulted. You just referred to yourself as the most horrible human being alive. Do you find it a reasonable estimate of your character?”

“Well, I'm no Ronnie Kray, obviously,” Orlando said, and then leaned back on the windowsill with all his weight as Michael's words sank in. “God, I do sound like a head case, don't I? I don't rationally think of myself that way, but... Michael, can you help me?”

“I can, and better yet, you can help yourself,” Michael said kindly. “You've been through a lot of abuse and other traumatic events. I have experience with clients who have responded very well to a blend of cognitive and behavioural therapy. I believe that could be quite helpful in your case as well.”

“Whatever it takes,” Orlando said from his place by the window, his face pale but determined. “I'll do whatever it takes.”

* * *

Sonia was happy to see him labouring in the garden, his hands sinking into the soil, with a streak of dirt across his cheekbone. When Orlando had come home that afternoon he'd had a far lighter step compared to when he had left, and for the first time since Orlando came back from L.A. she felt truly hopeful. Michael Evans had come highly recommended, and she had been prepared to drive Orlando to see him herself if that was what it took to help him keep his appointments, but after the first time Orlando said that they had formed a rapport and he would be going in again, if only to talk about all that had happened.

It was more than that, though; she felt it, and she saw it, and when Orlando started to hum a tune under his breath she also heard it.

* * *

Tbc in Chapter seven b

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 6/8

2013-06-03T04:27:50Z

Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs* Feedback is very much appreciated. :)

Previous chapters

'Thank God I have insurance.' That was one of the first things in Orlando's mind after he woke up – or rather, was woken up – and the nurse checking his vitals had explained to him where he was and what had happened (granted, the information she had was very limited). Thank God for insurance, because for all his modelling he still wasn't exactly a multi-millionaire, and who knew what tests and scans and treatments were in his near future and how much they’d cost, and how long a stay in hospital he was looking at.

The nurse looked at his face critically, and then exclaimed happily that a lot of the swelling had gone down during the past few hours; at the comment, Orlando dreaded to think how he had looked coming in. Perhaps it was an odd thing to be worried about, considering the circumstances, but he couldn't help wondering if a lucky paparazzo had managed a shot of his swollen mug when he was taken in to the Emergency Room.

A doctor came in some time later and told him the verdict; severe dehydration and overheating of the body. She explained that dehydration interfered with the body's normal functions, which was why it was so dangerous, and the swiftest means to achieve fluid balance was restoration of fluids and electrolytes through intravenous means. Bed rest coupled with hooking him to IV would ascertain Orlando's full recovery. The doctor told him that he was lucky in that he was young and physically fit; a child or an elderly person might not have survived the ordeal that he had gone through.

That was not to say that he could resume normal activity just yet; they would likely keep him overnight, on an IV, and he was not to tax himself physically under any circumstances. No exercise for at least a week.

Orlando paled as he looked at the large needle inserted into a vein on the back of his hand, and then quickly looked away. He hated needles, had hated them since he was still just a kid and getting his vaccinations at the doctor. He reckoned he was glad he'd been out of it while they were putting that needle in, because awake and conscious, he would have tried to get out of its way, never mind what his rational brain was telling him.

The room was white, and sterile, and while there was a window Orlando couldn't really see out of it from where he was lying, because the bed wasn't anywhere near the window and Orlando wondered which idiot had planned this room and arranged the furniture and the equipment and then he drifted off, not having been very conscious at all.

His second thought was that he could probably sue the gym for the incident and then he had to laugh, because that thought were just so American it was incredible. When in Rome. The thought struck him as funny and he laughed until tears were running down his cheeks, causing the nurse in charge to look at him like he was a loony and then offer him a sympathetic smile.

“You're on the road to recovery now,” she said. “Good thing the gym staff found you when they did.”

Orlando was still laughing when she left the room, and a short while later he was crying, now alone again.

* * *

Orlando had no kith and kin in town, but they did admit Elijah that afternoon at Orlando's insistence that he was well enough to receive a visitor, and Orlando was moved close to tears again at the sight of his friend. Elijah was pale and looked worried, and practically flew to Orlando's bedside from the door. He had a room of his own, and whether it was due to his celebrity status or his injuries he wasn't sure and didn't really care, but he appreciated the privacy. He wasn't sure if this was all in the tabloids. Elijah assured him that he'd heard nothing of the sort.

“God, Orli,” Elijah said and then hugged him fiercely, mindful of the tubes that connected Orlando's arm to the IV bag. Orlando had seen the nurse change the bag once already that day, and who knew how many he had needed before waking up. “I couldn't believe it when they called me. God, you look so wrong in that bed. We need to get you out of here. You must come and stay with us.”

“What is Matt going to say?” Orlando asked when Elijah at last let go of him, only to drag the visitor's chair as close to the bed as he could and plop down into it. “He's not going to love having a third wheel. Especially as that wheel is me.”

Elijah's boyfriend's dislike of Orlando was the only sore spot in their relationship; he and Orlando had got off to a rocky start and the intervening years had alleviated only some of the tension.

“He's fine, we talked about it on the way over. And you know Matt doesn't hate you. He was a bit jealous at first but he's been over it for years now. You just don't want to give him a chance.”

“Well, he did call me a stupid slut that one time,” Orlando said mildly. “But then I guess I did use some insulting words too, so I suppose we're even. And you're right, it was years ago. Ancient history. But I don't think... That is, I thought...”

He floundered, not sure how to voice the thought that he wanted to ask Viggo if he could come and stay with him. That would probably sound ungrateful regarding Elijah's offer. Not to mention presumptuous after how he and Viggo had parted the day before. Just a day. Orlando's mind spun. Two accidents in two days. No small wonder it was hard to wrap his mind around the facts.

“You'd rather stay at someone else's?” Elijah asked, perceptive as ever, and Orlando was grateful that he didn't look offended or hurt. “Anyone I know?”

“You might know his name actually,” Orlando started, and Elijah's eyes widened.

“Don't say Davide,” he said fiercely. “Don't say you're going back to him.”

“God, no! Lij, are you crazy? Never in this lifetime,” Orlando said, his lips thinning at the mere suggestion. “It's the bloke I've been talking about.”

“So is it some model you've worked with?” Elijah asked knowingly. Orlando knew that people gossiped about him and Andrea, but he just shook his head with a smile.

“No, a photographer, actually. His name's Viggo Mortensen. Not that I've called him yet or anything, so I'm just presuming he might want to have me over, so...”

Elijah squeezed his arm. “He'd be crazy not to. Just look at you when you speak his name. Are you just friends, really, or are you together?”

Orlando looked down, feeling a bit shy all of a sudden. “We're friends. I mean, we've done a bit more, but at this point we don't want to rush things. But I do like him. And don't I sound weird, saying that. Good thing I'm in a hospital already, maybe they could examine my head while they're at it.”

He tried to make it into a joke, because it really felt like one; him falling for some man like a teenager with his first crush, but making light of serious things never flew with Elijah.

“Shut it, Orli,” Elijah said softly. “Falling for someone isn't something to be ashamed of.”

“I guess I finally did,” Orlando said, and it wasn't such an awful thing to admit, after all. “But the timing is a bit of a challenge.”

He could have chuckled at the understatement. He was not an expert on relationships on the best of days, and now everything was such a mess it was no small wonder nothing seemed to make any sense.

“What do you mean?” Elijah asked. “Because you're in the hospital?”

Orlando sighed and let his head fall back on the pillow. “Actually, it's a bit more complicated than that.”

And because the visiting hour was nowhere near to its end, he had the time to tell Elijah everything that had happened since the morning that he had finally broken it off with Davide, and stormed out of his apartment, and wrecked his 'Vette. Elijah's eyes were wide as saucers by the time Orlando finished his tale, his face paler than it had been before.

“God, I can't believe this. Are you sure it's not Davide?”

Orlando made a wry face. “I checked from a reliable source, and he actually is cruising in the Mediterranean. That fucker. So I suppose it's not him. At least not the acid thing and this sauna thing. Or he's hired somebody to do it. I don't know anymore. I do know that he has a new bloke since I went to his place that morning.”

“You must call the police, Orli,” Elijah said. “Couldn't they put some surveillance on you, or something? Or get you into a safe house or what have you. Clearly you can't go home.”

That much Orlando had deduced by himself. His apartment hadn't been broken into; he assumed that the acid, whatever it had been, had probably been put in the bottle while it was in his bag, which meant that someone had likely followed him to the shooting location and changed the bottles while everyone was busy working. He shivered. If the bottle hadn't slipped from his grasp, and if he'd applied the stuff to his face, he would still have landed in hospital but for a whole other reason, probably waiting to be seen by a plastic surgeon. Goodbye career, goodbye the Face.

“And I can't come to your house, because I don't want to put you two at risk. I'm not so sure about Viggo's place, either. But I guess I have to go somewhere.”

Elijah nodded, accepting his reasoning. “And the police?”

Orlando bit his lip. “I guess I'll have to. I don't want to die, Lij. I just.... I didn't think someone would follow me there. Unless it was some stupid prank and I just happened to be there. I don't know. But I'll think about it.”

Elijah nodded empathetically. Orlando appreciated him not ordering him around; Elijah usually trusted Orlando to know his own mind, and didn't pressure.

“You do that. This is getting out of hand, big time. I'd feel a lot better if the police looked into it.”

“He sounded so convincing,” Orlando said, almost to himself. “And there is also the fact that when I went to his place there was some young dude in there. It didn't take all that long for him to replace me. So maybe I just imagined the threat. Maybe it's just some crazy fan or something who's gone insane. I don't know.”

Elijah squeezed his hand. “You probably want to call Viggo before the visiting hour is over, right? So I'll just take Matt and head home. But if you ever need anything, a place to stay, anything, call me. Day or night, whatever, I don't care. And please do call me if you go to Viggo's from here. I need to know you got to some place safe.”

Orlando smiled tiredly. “Will do. Love you, Lij.”

“Love you too, Orli. Always have and always will.” Elijah kissed him on the cheek and left.

The white from the walls seemed to wash over him and he dozed off after Elijah left, still feeling like he was drifting in the winds, weightless, bodiless.

* * *

Orlando was told that at his rate of recovery he could be released tomorrow, but they wanted to keep him over night just to see that there were no further complications. Orlando accepted this information with as much grace as he could muster, although a night spent in the hospital bed didn't appeal in the slightest.

He called Viggo just after the doctor left, and first told him not to worry, and then divulged his current whereabouts. Viggo told him that he had a visitor – it was Joaquín, visiting Viggo to get some photographs Viggo had shot earlier – but he wouldn't be staying the night, and Viggo promised to come and get Orlando the second he was released the next day, because he didn't want Orlando having to take a taxi when he could get a ride from a friend.

Orlando didn't know how to ask, so finally he just blurted, “I know this is asking a lot, but could you perhaps give me a roof over my head until I figure something out? I'll be out of your hair soon, I promise.”

Viggo immediately said that Orlando could stay at his place as long as he wanted, promising that his old sweats were Orlando's to use whenever he needed them. Viggo wasn't talkative on the phone, but Orlando could hear from his tone of voice that he was very worried, and that he was forcing himself not to react too overtly to Orlando's 'accident'.

“Are you allowed any more visitors tonight?” Viggo asked. “I'll come right over if you want me there.”

Orlando wanted that, too, but he knew that by the time Viggo got to the hospital the visiting hour would be over. Besides, he was exhausted, and was already fighting sleep. He suspected it might also have something to do with the stuff that was dripping into his veins from the IV.

“It's okay,” he said. “If nothing goes wrong they'll release me tomorrow. I'll see you then. And please, don't worry. I think I'm quite safe here.”

“I guess I'll worry until I see you again,” Viggo said, and Orlando dearly wished he could have seen Viggo's face then.

“It's just one night,” Orlando said to reassure him, and then he had to smile. “Wait a minute, you should be comforting me, you ass, not the other way around. Come to think of it, I just had to hold Lij's hand too. What's the world coming to?”

The attempt at humour fell a little flat; Viggo was too concerned to appreciate Orlando making light of the matter, and Orlando was feeling a little too trampled on to manage anything better.

“I'll hold your hand tomorrow all you can stand and more,” Viggo said. “Now get some sleep, you sound exhausted. And try and keep your precious self alive until tomorrow.”

Orlando's throat closed at the tender words and he had to swallow. “Okay. Good night. And don't do anything I wouldn't. Namely Joaquín.”

Orlando could almost hear the smile that followed his little joke. “I won't, I promise.”

“Okay, bye then.”

“See you tomorrow. Sleep well.”

* * *

If I didn't have insurance, I would have to sue, Orlando concluded the next morning as they were finishing the paperwork on his release and he wrote down his insurance info, and was more than glad of his insured state because the last thing he wanted was to file a lawsuit and risk the whole thing leaking to the public, creating a scandal and causing the paparazzi and journalists to hound him more than they usually did.

He'd phoned Viggo that morning to let him know that he'd be released around twelve, after the doctor had checked him, and at twelve thirty he walked out, still feeling slightly out of sorts but more than glad to get up from the dreadful hospital bed; and when he spotted Viggo coming to greet him at the parking lot it was all he could do not to break into a run, like some movie heroine that throws herself in the hero's arms.

They did hug, though, and Viggo held him without words for at least a full minute. Orlando was more than grateful for the support, because all his muscles felt sore, and he still felt weak as a kitten.

“I'll just take you home, okay?” Viggo said to his ear, and Orlando nodded, breathing in the scent of safety that only Viggo's embrace could offer nowadays. They both knew that 'home' meant Viggo's place.

“Fourth time you’ve had to take care of me,” Orlando said when they were in the car, and they'd driven a few minutes in silence. “This is a habit we have to break, mate. It's not doing much for my self-esteem. Or my health.” He attempted to sound humorous, but the sentiment was sincere.

Viggo smiled briefly, but his hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I'm starting to think this is a police matter. To state the very obvious. I should've insisted on that ages ago. I'm so sorry, Orlando.”

“You're sorry? You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about,” Orlando said. “How about I'm sorry for freaking out yesterday and all but throwing you out after you'd been nothing but supportive and kind? After you'd stayed the night pretty much holding me together? If I'd acted like a rational normal person I wouldn't even have been in that stupid sauna and have someone attempt to murder me.”

He bit his lip hard after the last sentence, as it sunk in, and he could see Viggo blanch as well, his eyes still fixed on the road.

“Babe, don't blame yourself. Please. You couldn't have known. I should've said something and not just left like a big idiot.” Viggo smacked the steering wheel in frustration.

“Well, you couldn't have known either,” Orlando said, and then replayed Viggo's words in his brain. “Babe?”

Viggo grimaced. Apparently he hadn't intended to let that slip. “Shit, I'm sorry. You don't need that.”

“Stop saying you're sorry,” Orlando said, irritated. “You have nothing to apologise for. I don't mind, besides.”

Silence fell, where Viggo contemplated what Orlando had meant, and Orlando contemplated if this signalled a shift in their relationship.

“Being called babe?” Viggo asked.

“Being called babe by you,” Orlando clarified, feeling a bit demure, but all feelings of foolishness disappeared at the sight of Viggo's face breaking into a grin. Christ. He was turning into a teenage boy. Or girl. He wasn't sure which sex freaked out the worst when they first fell for somebody, but he was just as bad.

“How's Joaquín, by the way?” he asked off-handedly, but paid attention to Viggo's reaction. It seemed that for all his near death experiences he still had to shrug off the green-eyed monster. Viggo's smile vanished at the mention of his Spanish friend. Orlando assumed – or hoped – they had had a few words about boundaries and such after Joaquín's words to Orlando at Viggo's party.

“Fine, I suppose. He came by yesterday to talk about the project we both worked on, and left after you called. He was shocked to hear that you were in hospital.”

They came to a busy intersection and had to stop at the red light, and Viggo fumbled with the gears; the first outward sign that he was nervous. Orlando assumed it was because of the personal, even intimate, turn that their conversation had taken. He wasn't too pleased with the implication that Viggo had talked to Joaquín about his personal matters.

“You told him that?”

“Well, he knew it was you calling, and I suppose our discussion led him to the conclusion that you'd been admitted. He didn't ask about it, though, and I didn't say anything about the cause, so no, he doesn't know why and doesn't need to. I'm not expecting to see him for a while anyway, since we have no projects pending.”

Orlando bit his lip again. “I know I was being a bit presumptuous last night when I told you not to fuck him.” Not that he regretted it one bit.

Viggo snorted laughter. “It's okay, but I wouldn't have fucked him anyway. We haven't had sex in months and I don't mean to go down that road again.”

“Does he know that?” Orlando asked. “Just asking because the last time I talked to him, he was all but pissing all over you and warning me off.”

“He knows,” Viggo said with emphasis, and looked over at Orlando. “He and I had a discussion after that night and I made very clear that if he continues spewing such bullshit it'll be the last he sees of me. I can just imagine how it made you feel.”

“Pretty bad, actually,” Orlando said, “but that's over. I won't be missing the sight of him.”

They'd reached Viggo's apartment building, and Viggo steered the car onto the ramp that lead to the underground parking lot. Orlando smiled at the sight of Viggo's neighbour's dented Ferrari, thinking that it felt like years since he'd first come here, seeking refuge from the paparazzi. Viggo was quiet in the elevator on their way up, and Orlando didn't say anything either, sensing that Viggo was putting distance between them – again. It had got a bit emotional back there at the hospital parking lot and on the ride over, and Orlando had to admit to feeling a bit shaken up, so perhaps Viggo thought it best not to crowd him.

“Are you hungry?” Viggo asked him as soon as they were inside. “I changed the bed in the guest room so if you want to take a nap it's ready. Anything you need, or want, you only need to say.”

Orlando felt the invisible wall between them, and was desperate to tear it down. He'd already admitted to himself – and to Elijah – that he had feelings for Viggo. It was time to do something about it, rather than just fret about it. Which reminded him that he had some questions that he would like to have answered before the evening progressed.

“Can I ask you something first?” he asked.

Viggo shrugged. “Sure.”

“I was just wondering why you didn't call me after I left your place that one time before Christmas.” Orlando wanted to ask why Viggo hadn't invited him for his New Year Eve's party, but that would be a bit too presumptuous.

To his surprise, Viggo coloured a little. “I made the mistake of listening to the wrong people,” he said quietly.

Orlando's brows quirked curiously. “In what way?”

“I heard from someone we both know that you had hit it off with Andrea Peretti,” Viggo said, clearly embarrassed to recount the piece of gossip. “And they were pretty adamant that it was all official and a well-known fact, so I thought you'd moved on and got yourself a new boyfriend. And after your note I thought you wanted me to leave you alone, so I thought I'd wait to see if you called me.”

“Oh,” Orlando said, as realisation dawned. “I've heard that rumour before. Every time we hit the town together it starts to circulate again. Andrea is a friend and has never been, nor ever will be, anything more than that. Not a friend with benefits, and not a boyfriend.”

He thought he could guess who'd told Viggo that he and Andrea had hooked up, and thought he would happily strangle Joaquín for the lie the next time he saw him, Viggo's friend or not. In fact, Viggo would be better off with such 'friends' out of his life. Judging by Viggo's expression he shared the sentiment.

He saw Viggo filing this away, but he still looked uneasy. “I know that now. And I shouldn't have listened to gossip to begin with,” Viggo said. “And I know I should've given you a call to wish you a Merry Christmas, but all I could see before my mind's eye was you spending Christmas with your boyfriend, all cosy and bundled up, and not welcoming any calls from me, so I didn't. That's also why I didn't invite you to the New Year party. I thought you'd be too busy to come.”

Viggo had been jealous? Normally any signs of possessiveness had Orlando all but running to the hills, thanks to his experiences with past lovers, but Viggo admitting to having been jealous sent a pleased little thrill down Orlando's spine.

“Well, I'm glad we cleared that up,” Orlando said. “Just for the record, there hasn't been anyone new in my life in any capacity since I broke it off with my ex. Apart from you, of course. I know people talk and this industry being what it is...”

“It's not a very friendly one,” Viggo said with a little smile. “So, now that we've sorted that, I should probably also come clean and confess that I also haven't any new boyfriends or such. Still single.”

Orlando shared Viggo's smile and felt a small frisson of excitement. The interest was still there, and it had to be two-sided if Viggo had wanted him over. Orlando wasn't good with taking things slow, and so he thought it better to follow Viggo's lead in this. There was no rush, and no hurry, and he didn't want to spoil things by being too pushy.

Viggo was studying his face carefully, and asked if he'd like to get some rest. Orlando suppressed a wince. The last thing he wanted was to get any more sleep! Not to mention that the thought of being sequestered in Viggo's guest room didn't hold much appeal.

“Actually I was thinking that it'd be nice to just watch something, on the couch, or do something together. I feel I've slept enough for a week.”

It wasn't much of a proposal, but he didn't feel he had the energy for anything more strenuous than lounging around. If Viggo wanted sex, Orlando thought he could comply, but it wasn't on the top of his own agenda at the moment. Now, kissing or cuddling, on the other hand, would be more than welcome. Orlando secretly hoped that Viggo's thoughts ran in the same direction.

“Of course,” Viggo said immediately, and Orlando could have sworn he looked relieved. “I'll get us something to snack on, why don't you go and make yourself comfortable.”

Orlando was quick to comply, and headed over to the couch facing Viggo's flat screen TV. He arranged the cushions so that they formed a cosy nest on the couch, and reached over for the blanket, burrowing underneath it in search of warmth. Viggo's apartment was quite cool, and as one who was perpetually cold, Orlando appreciated the warm woollen blanket. The couch was large enough to seat several people, but he hoped that with him lying down they'd find themselves in close proximity. He was still hoping for those cuddles.

He'd warmed up quite nicely by the time Viggo brought in a few cans of soda – sugar free for Orlando – , a small bag of potato chips and walnuts in a small bowl.

“What, they're good for you,” he explained at the sight of Orlando's raised eyebrow, and Orlando smiled.

“Well, what are we going to watch?”

Viggo went over to his stack of DVDs, hunkering down in front of the television. Orlando thought it very domestic to watch Viggo puttering around; it was something he could easily get used to. What an odd thought. Not to mention that he'd been over at Viggo's only twice before, but already it felt familiar, and welcoming. The feeling was most decidedly nice, if a bit unexpected.

“Now let's see...” Viggo dug through his DVDs, looking at the covers of a few and scrunching up his face in indecision, and finally came up with the newest Bond film that Orlando hadn't yet seen. It had been on the theatres while he was busy with Fashion week and other work projects, and he'd managed to miss it despite his best intentions. “How about a British dude kicking ass?”

Orlando never went for straight blokes, but he thought he would happily go for Daniel Craig in any way, shape or form. He thought Viggo would take a piss if he revealed his celeb crush, so he went with a reserved, “Yeah, that's fine.”

Viggo put the DVD on and came to sit next to Orlando on the couch. After a few minutes of awkward scuffling, they found a position that they both found agreeable; Viggo leaning on the cushions with his feet propped up on the living room table, and Orlando's head resting on Viggo's chest, his body curled on the couch.

Orlando did his best to follow the storyline but even despite the hotness that was a beaten up Daniel Craig – and his own earlier proclamation that he wasn't tired – his lids started to droop at the thirty minute mark, and he drowsed through the movie, lulled into a sense of security by the sound of Viggo's heartbeat, and the feel of his warm, strong body against his own.

“Are you asleep?” Viggo asked quietly when the credits rolled, and Orlando mmh'ed a sleepy answer. “Do you want to move to the guest room?”

“Nah, here's fine,” Orlando mumbled, and burrowed into deeper contact with Viggo.

He more felt than heard Viggo chuckle a little, and then Viggo wriggled a bit to get into a more comfortable position, and they drowsed together in the afternoon silence. Orlando took in the scent of Viggo with every indrawn breath, aware on some level that it was really quite pleasing, but the erection forming in his pants still took him by surprise. He shifted a little, hoping it would subside before it drove him crazy, and the small movement drew a comment from Viggo.

“You comfortable?”

“Yeah,” Orlando said, and was glad that his face was against Viggo's chest, because that way Viggo couldn't see him blush. He, Orli Bloom who had performed oral sex with people watching and never batted an eyelash.

Orlando started as Viggo gathered him close, his lips tracing a path from his ear to his jaw, sending erotic sparks pooling down south. Well, there went his hope that his hard-on would go away quietly, he thought giddily, and then let out a disappointed whine when Viggo's lips left his skin.

“Are you going to apologise for that too?” he asked, when Viggo didn't say anything, but just held him.

“No. Maybe I ought to, because you're still recovering, but I've wanted to do that since I first saw you today.”

Orlando smiled, warmed by the compliment, and closed his eyes. “Too bad I'm not quite feeling up to going to bed.”

“No, I don't expect that at all,” Viggo said quickly. “If you meant sex.”

“Yes, I meant sex,” Orlando said with a significant glance at Viggo from under his lashes. “And I really mean 'too bad' because I'm hard as hell.”

Viggo exhaled sharply, and his hand ran down Orlando's arm to his side, and then curled there around his ribs almost reflexively. “Do you want...?”

“If you don't think it's too soon,” Orlando said, and then added wryly, “I've told you before that I don't really know what's normal. I've always been all too quick to ditch the pants and just go for it. So a bit of a slut, really, when you think about it.”

“You're not a slut. You're the most precious thing I've known in my life.” It was perhaps a corny thing to say, and Orlando would have scoffed had it come out of anyone else's mouth, but Viggo's face was so serious that Orlando couldn't doubt his sincerity and he melted at the kindness.

Orlando raised himself so that he could find Viggo's mouth, and they shared their first kiss that wasn't driven by lust. Viggo's hands combed his hair back from his face, and when Orlando opened his eyes he saw that Viggo's eyes were open too. It felt almost dreadfully intimate to kiss and be held like this, but Orlando withstood it, knowing that Viggo wasn't after a quick blowjob or a frenzied from the behind fuck, and because he wasn't after any of those things either.

“You taste so good,” Viggo said when the kiss ended. “I love the taste of your mouth.”

Orlando almost made a quip about having quit smoking just to hear that, but smiled instead.

“You too. God, I never really used to like kissing, but you...”

And he went back for another. It was a new thing, this, kissing and being kissed just for the sake of it. Before, a kiss was the compulsory prelude to going down on your knees for the preparatory fluffing that preceded the main event. Now, they were tasting each other with permission, Viggo's mouth moving under his, his tongue sweeping Orlando's own, creating slick contact that made him want to burst.

And most amazing of all was that Viggo wasn't groping him, wasn't fingering him, pawing at him like a horny teen boy allowed to cop his first feel; Viggo's hand remained on his side, the other one resting on his neck, and Orlando was hot all over in a way that was awesomely foreign.

Out of an unspoken agreement they manoeuvred themselves until they were lying flush against each other, and Orlando pushed the blanket away, since they had now created enough heat to keep him warm, and placed Viggo's hand on his groin, feeling the heat of his palm even through the bunched fabric. Viggo pressed down with the heel of his hand, and Orlando groaned, and took Viggo's lips again.

“God, just do it,” he said, and Viggo's fingers formed a loose fist around Orlando's cock, and even without skin contact Orlando felt small jolts running from his cock to his balls, and he realised he was so close to orgasm already it wouldn't take more than just a few tugs to get him off. He pushed his hips into Viggo's hand, and Viggo moaned with him as Orlando's hips stuttered and his cock pulsed in Viggo's palm.

His heart racing, Orlando pulled back a little to better be able to gasp for breath, and he felt Viggo's hand leave his crotch and pull at his shoulder, to turn him so that they were face to face again. Orlando kept his eyes open, and met Viggo's gaze unguardedly, his smile a bit tired around the edges, but still happy.

“You're so beautiful,” Viggo said, and gave a light kiss on his lower lip.

He'd been called that all his life, ever since he was still just a little kid, and it was just another of those remarks that didn't even really register anymore, but he was glad when Viggo said it. Viggo thought he was beautiful and didn't think he was a slut; Viggo who had been his friend ever since they had first met.

“What about you?” he asked, and had to wince as that reminded him of their first encounter in the motel. Only there was nothing about this that made him feel cheap, or stupid; quite the opposite.

Viggo smiled. “Good things come to those who wait,” he said. “If you don't mind, we can pick up on this a bit later when you're more rested. I don't want to put too much pressure on you.”

Orlando wouldn't have minded, but he knew better than to argue. The prospect of continuing getting more intimate was more than appealing; they'd had sex twice – sort of – and he had yet to even see Viggo's cock, let alone do anything else; something he intended to rectify at the earliest opportunity.

“I'm looking forward to actually returning the favour, and more,” Orlando said with emphasis. ”Now, I should probably get out of these jeans.” His crotch was wet and sticky, and his trunks were starting to feel uncomfortably cold against his skin.

“I'll get you a pair of boxers,” Viggo said, and stole another kiss. “Now don't move. I'll be back in a sec.”

They shared a few kisses while Orlando changed into Viggo's boxer shorts, Viggo's hand squeezing a buttock that fitted his hand nicely, but when Orlando's stomach rumbled they were reminded that they hadn't even had lunch yet. Viggo's fridge didn't offer much in the way of edibles, and he then rummaged through the freezer to see if he had anything worth eating. He disregarded a pizza box out of consideration for Orlando's strict diet, and came up with an apologetic frown.

“I'm sorry. I usually eat out.”

“A bachelor house, I should have known,” Orlando said with a gentle roll of his eyes. “Is there a grocery shop nearby? We could make a quick dash there and then cook something together.”

“There's one just around the block. You look dead on your feet, though,” Viggo said, and was proven right when Orlando couldn't hold back a yawn. “Why don't you go and rest, I'll run to the store to get something to eat. I could make a salad or a soup or something.”

Orlando padded back to their cosy man-made nest on the couch, and allowed Viggo to tuck him in.

“I'll be back before you know it,” Viggo said, and couldn't help a possessive little caress down Orlando's cheek. “Do you need anything else? Toothbrush, maybe?”

Orlando realised that all his essentials were still at his place, and made a mental note to ask Viggo to take him by his apartment. Not right now, though. Tomorrow was soon enough.

“Yeah, other than that, I'm fine,” Orlando said. “Please hurry back.”

Viggo gave him a kiss and left, but when he was closing the door he paused. “I know this might sound paranoid,” he said, “but I'd feel a lot better if you put the security chain on after I left. I'll call you from outside the door when I'm back, so that you can let me in.”

Orlando got up tiredly, and put on the security chain after the door closed. He trudged back to the couch and flopped down, closing his eyes with a big yawn, and wrapped the blanket around himself.

It seemed he had fallen asleep, because he was jostled awake when the door buzzer went off. Orlando thought about ignoring it, but when the persistent would-be-visitor wouldn't give up, he got up sluggishly and padded over to the voice-com.

“Who is it?”

A pause, then, “Orlando? Is Viggo in?”

Joaquín. Orlando closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. “No, you just missed him.”

“Oh, too bad. I had something I wanted to show him.”

Awesome. Orlando refrained from telling him to beat it, and opted for the polite, “Well, maybe if you came back another time...”

“This is actually kind of heavy, mind if I drop it there? I'll call him later.”

He sighed. Well, if that was what it took to get him out of his hair.

“Okay, I guess that's fine,” he said, and buzzed Joaquín in. A minute later the doorbell rang, and Orlando checked it was him (apparently Viggo's paranoia was catching) by the peep-hole before letting the other boy in.

Joaquín took a long look at him from head to toe. “Wow, I wouldn't have known that the Face could get so crumpled.”

There was a bald insinuation to his words that Orlando didn't like, but he put that down to Joaquín being jealous. He rolled his eyes, and stepped aside to admit Joaquín; he was carrying a bag, which looked heavy, and walked past Orlando into the apartment.

“You can put that in Viggo's studio,” Orlando called out, and watched Joaquín go to the appointed room. He pushed the door shut with his foot, deciding that paranoia or no paranoia he was locking the door again after Joaquín, even if Viggo would be back in five minutes.

A few minutes passed, and Orlando forced back a sigh of annoyance. Surely it didn't take that long to put the bag away, even if he was unpacking it. “Joaquín?”

There was no answer. Orlando waited a few minutes more and then crossed the hallway and went in the door on the left to Viggo's studio. A movement in the left corner of his eye alerted him and he threw himself to the right just as something hard and heavy fell down, catching his shoulder instead his head.

He fell to the ground, shocked and in pain, and looked up to see Joaquín.

“You stupid whore, you should be dead already,” Joaquín spat out, and brought down the sculpture again. It caught Orlando on the left forearm which he had instinctively raised to protect his head, and he shrieked as his arm exploded in pain.

Joaquín had overreached and lost his balance, falling on his knees, and the sculpture smashed to pieces on the floor. Orlando tried to ward him off with the other arm that was still working, but didn't have the strength to keep him off. Joaquín's hands closed around Orlando's throat, and Orlando tried to wheeze in a breath; Joaquín's grip was iron and he was snarling, spit flying from his lips.

Orlando reached with his hand to get something, anything to hit Joaquín with, his fingers searching the floor next to him, and at last his hand encountered a piece of plaster from the smashed sculpture, and he grabbed that and went for Joaquín's face as hard as he could. The crushing pressure on his windpipe immediately eased as Joaquín shrieked and brought his hands to his face; Orlando could see blood gushing from between his fingers, and Orlando had a split second to be grateful that the piece of plaster he'd caught had been sharp and jagged.

He struggled to get up while Joaquín was holding his face and wailing, but it felt like air refused to go down his windpipe, and he coughed and spluttered even as he tried to get up and out of the room. Fuck, I'll crawl if I have to, he thought, and did so, now cursing the fact that he had closed the door after Joaquín. He stumbled to his feet when he reached the hallway, but even as he reached for the door he was hit again, this time on the head, and he went down on his crushed arm.

The pain that flared almost made him pass out, and as he rolled to his side to vainly cradle the throbbing mess that had been his arm he saw that Joaquín stood in the hallway, panting and with one hand still pressed to his face, namely over his right eye. In his left hand was a bigger piece of plaster than the one Orlando had found, and this one had Orlando's blood on it from the blow that had felled him.

“You fucking slut,” Joaquín said, and dropped down to his knees next to Orlando. “You fucking slut.”

Orlando kicked out with his foot in a final, desperate attempt to avoid being smashed in the head again, and by luck his foot struck Joaquín right between the legs. He let out a howl and brought his hands, even the one that had been covering his ruined eye, to his crotch, his whole body balling around the pain.

Orlando tried to get away from him, pushing his body backwards on the hallway carpet with his uninjured hand and both his feet, knowing that he should try and get up, but his head was spinning and his vision was growing grainy, and he knew he was on the verge of passing out. He banged his useless arm against the floor and was grateful for the pain, because that washed away the threat of going out cold.

His mobile phone went off in the living room, and Orlando's mind made a full 180. If it was Viggo calling, then it was Viggo coming home, maybe even as close as behind the door, and he started to scream.

“Help! Viggo! Help!”

Joaquín was crawling to him on hands and feet, and Orlando could barely stand to look at his bloody face; not just because of the bloody mess that had been his face from the right cheekbone up, but for the hate-filled, murderous look in his uninjured eye.

“Shut up you --”

The door opened, and seconds later Joaquín was flung aside, falling with a pained 'oomph'. Orlando managed one look at Viggo's white, livid face, and then he fell back and blessedly knew no more, didn't hear the panicked repetition of his name, didn't feel the gentle hand checking him for injury.

* * *

Orlando came to in the ambulance, his lashes fluttering as he regained consciousness little by little, and after an instant's panic he scanned the faces around him, looking for the one he most needed to see. There were two people riding in the back with him, and he realised with a pang that neither of them was --

“Viggo?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Mr. Mortensen is following us to the hospital in his own car,” the younger of the medics said. “Stay still, please.”

Orlando stilled and then asked the obligatory, “What about... what about that other guy?”

“Another ambulance took him,” the medic said. “Please, sir, keep still to avoid jolting your arm.”

Orlando felt his shattered arm throb as if in reply to the comment, and soon his abused shoulder joined in the choir. He groaned and closed his eyes. His scalp felt a bit numb where the blow had fallen, and he was glad for that small mercy. A slow, pulsing headache started behind his eyes on the way to the hospital, and he mentioned it to the medic.

“You're concussed, Mr. Bloom. We'll just take you in so they can start treating you.”

Orlando didn't say anything after that, he simply concentrated on breathing and riding the pain.

* * *

tbc in Chapter seven a

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 5/8

2013-05-27T04:30:47Z

Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs* Feedback is very much appreciated. :)

Previous chapters

Thursday came. And Thursday meant date night with Viggo.

Orlando had caught up with Andrea on a break in the shooting earlier and asked if it made him desperate, or a whore, that he kind of wished that he and Viggo would have sex again, even if it was just as friends with no promises of a more serious commitment and even if it did complicate things just a little bit further.

Andrea sucked on the end of his cigarette while considering this, and then told him to get on with it if he felt like it and no, it didn't make him desperate because Viggo Mortensen was sexy as hell, and it didn't make him a whore unless he planned to charge US dollars for the actual deed. And if he did, he must make sure to charge top dollar, because Orli Bloom shouldn't put out for spare change.

“Thanks, I guess,” Orlando said, and made a face. Andrea's eyes, smoky from the make-up for the shoot, sparkled in amusement. It was a rare thing to see Orlando this flushed, and this excited, over a guy, and Andrea enjoyed seeing him so.

“Any time. Now stop worrying. The dude obviously has a thing for you. But then that's him and about five per cent of the male population,” Andrea said, and smoked on. Then his eyes bugged when Orlando's words sank in. “Wait a minute. You're getting it on with Viggo Mortensen for real?”

Orlando's face warmed, and he smiled happily. “I bloody well hope so,” he said. “We're still at the friends stage, mostly, but yeah.”

Andrea chuckled and stubbed out his cigarette. Knowing Orlando, he didn't ask him to elaborate on 'mostly'. “Poor Steen, he never stood any chance, did he? Jesus. The paparazzi are going to have a field day with you two. I don't think it's even common knowledge that he's gay.”

Orlando's thoughts, exactly. Except now that he thought about it, he'd never heard one whisper of Viggo's sexual leanings from the industry gossip mill, or any other more reputable source, and he wondered if Viggo would be comfortable with their relationship, or friends with benefits arrangement, whatever it was to be called, becoming public at some point. Orlando refused to be anyone's dirty little secret; cloaks and daggers were all fine and well, but he hadn't been in the closet since he was fifteen and didn't intend to go back to hiding. Even for Viggo.

However, that didn't mean that they had to flaunt their relationship in front of the media. He had learned his lesson with Davide, and the screaming headlines and gossip columns hadn't made the break-up any easier.

“We're not going public,” Orlando said firmly. “No way. Not until we've worked things out. I'm making him dinner at my place. If we turned up at some restaurant that'd create too much interest.”

Andrea looked shocked, knowing how much Orlando valued his own space. “Your place? Wow, Orli. You're going all in, aren't you? He'd be crazy not to jump you the second he gets the chance.”

“Thanks, again, I guess. I'll let you know if I got any,” Orlando said, and grinned. Andrea recognised this for the rubbish that it was and rolled his eyes.

“A text will do just fine, bello. No need to call me in the middle of the night.”

Just to put his mind at rest, Orlando called Elijah for a second opinion and his friend convinced him that he wasn't a whore for wanting sex with a bloke he fancied.

“And wait a minute, why is this the first time that I'm hearing about this guy?” Elijah asked accusingly. “Orli, come clean. Are you seeing someone?”

Orlando bit on his thumb and smiled to himself. “I'll tell you all about it, and him, next time we meet,” he promised. “It's been... complicated, you know? When is it ever simple where I'm concerned?”

“Never,” Elijah immediately said. “So now you owe me a date. Let's hit Rodeo Drive and you can tell me all about this guy while you help me find something to wear for Matt's work function. The one I told you about last week You haven't forgotten, have you?”

“No,” Orlando lied, and promised to go shopping with Elijah on Saturday, with full details of his dinner date with Viggo.

* * *

The Vogue editorial shoot was wrapped up that day, including several hours spent outdoors that had Orlando shivering in the surprisingly cold January winds, considering that this was California and not bloody Alaska. Orlando stayed behind for a little while to talk with the photographer, a big name and a surprisingly mellow man for one of his talent, because that's how you made the connections and the rep, but he kept his eye on his watch and his mind on the things he still needed to get done before Viggo came, and so he took a rain check on the offer to go out for a drink and instead drove home.

Orlando fumbled with the keys when he came in, since his hands were also full of grocery bags, and then pushed the door closed with his foot, and stopped. Hadn't he left the little lamp in the hallway switched on? He stood in the hallway with his bags of groceries, listening to the silence and hardly daring to breathe. He could only hear the distant hum from the A/C, as well as the infrequent gurgling noises coming from the refrigerator, and he relaxed, realising that no-one was there, and he was being a big baby.

“This is stupid,” he said out loud, and padded across the floor to the kitchen where he switched the lights on and started to put away the items he'd bought; a loaf of full wheat bread, some organic cherries, plum tomatoes for the angel hair pasta dish he planned to prepare, a pack of fresh blueberries (something he ate by the ton), a six pack of bottled water, two bottles of wine, and a small piece of feta cheese. The small ice cream carton he stored in the freezer, thinking that he might serve espresso with vanilla ice cream for dessert. Surely that was simple enough, and he could burn the calories at the gym the morning after.

He wasn't sure if Viggo had a sweet tooth, but he thought that maybe they could skip dessert – at least the edible sort – and go straight to some post-meal cuddling. Cuddling. That word didn't even used to belong to his vocabulary. Knowing Viggo was teaching him several unexpected things.

He took a quick look around the apartment to see if he had any spare clothing lying around, or any possible messes that his cleaning lady had somehow missed – she never did, the place was always spotless and she was an angel – and then concluding that his place was as tidy and welcoming as it could be, decided against any last minute tidying up.

For all that he wasn't home a lot, his apartment did have a welcoming feel to it. Warm hues in turquoise, cream and brown, with some green plants here and there. He didn't entertain at home very often, but he sometimes invited Elijah and some other friends over for dinner, or a movie night. Never one night stands. Davide had preferred his own place and spent just a handful of nights at Orlando's, and so this place didn't hold many memories that pertained to him. Orlando straightened a cushion and nodded to himself. His place wasn't as fancy as Viggo's, but he too had some original artwork on the walls that he was proud to own, and the carpets were all luxuriously soft and thick.

The groceries dealt with, and the apartment check done, Orlando took one of the water bottles from the fridge and emptied it in thirsty gulps, kicking off his shoes as he left the kitchen and unbuttoning his jeans with one hand as he went. He sat down on his bed and pulled off his sweater, turned on the stereo system for some music and then went to the bathroom, taking his wash bag with him.

Orlando raised his arm and sniffed, making a face. God, he smelled bad; a shower was most certainly in order before Viggo came. Pheromones were one thing and BO was wholly another. If he and Viggo were to become more friendly that evening, Orlando wanted to present a clean, scrubbed, nice-smelling body for Viggo's enjoyment, not the end result of a gruelling – at least by industry standards – day at work. They could work up a sweat together if Viggo preferred him that way. Orlando's insides made a little somersault at the possibility of getting intimate, and he told himself to not get too excited over something that might not happen. Still, he had a definite bounce to his step as started to make himself presentable.

He opened his bag and reached for the cotton pads and the cleansing milk that he always took to the work gigs with him to freshen up right after the shoot; only today he'd been in too much of a hurry to get the groceries to do his post-shoot clean up routine. He looked at himself in the mirror and stroked his chin, contemplating the length of his stubble, but decided to skip the shaving. The slight stubble added an edge to his appearance, and Orlando rather liked the change. It made him look older and more serious, instead of the clean-shaven pretty young boy he played for a living.

Picking up one of the pads and the bottle of cleansing milk, he uncapped it to squirt the liquid onto the cotton. Suddenly the plastic bottle slipped from his hands and fell onto the tiled floor, splashing its contents all over the place. Orlando reflexively jumped back to avoid getting it all over himself.

“Shit!”

Orlando reached for the roll of toilet paper to clean up the mess and crouched near the biggest puddle, swiping the nearest stains from the tiles. His eyes widened as the liquid sizzled and bubbled, eating at the toilet paper before his eyes. He dropped the paper as if he'd been burned, although none of the liquid had got on his hand, and cradled his hand back against his chest.

Orlando's legs gave way and he landed on his bottom, staring stupidly at the puddle of cleansing milk that was something else entirely, thinking that the mess could, no, was supposed to have been his face.

Viggo found him sitting on the bedroom floor, his back flush against the wall and his legs bent with his arms wrapped around them. He was staring at the floor in front of him and didn't look up even when Viggo crouched next to him, trying desperately to hide his concern at the blank look on Orlando's face. He had rung the bell and then knocked, only to find that the door was unlocked. Cautiously he'd entered, calling Orlando's name as he did so, afraid of what he might find.

“Hey, what's up?” Viggo's voice was careful, gauging if it was safe to come closer, and Orlando blinked slowly as if he coming back from a trance-like state.

“I need to go away,” he said. His voice was emotionless and flat, and he still didn't raise his eyes.

“Have I done something?” Viggo asked carefully, his hand hovering by Orlando's shoulder, unsure whether his touch would be welcome. “Should I leave you alone?”

Orlando's hand shot out and grabbed him by his wrist, and Viggo hissed at the tight grip. He forgot about his discomfort when he saw Orlando's eyes. Panicked and shocked, both feelings barely kept at bay.

“No!” he whispered harshly, and his fingers tightened their hold. Viggo realised that he was shaking, shaking so hard that if not for the wall behind him they would have both fallen to the floor.

Letting his other hand remain in Orlando's stranglehold, he turned so that he could wrap his free arm around Orlando and pulled the young man to his embrace. At first Viggo thought Orlando would bolt; all of his muscles felt hard and resistant, but then Orlando melted against him, his head finding the perfect spot to lean on. The bridge of his nose pressed against Viggo's throat, and the rapid pulse beneath the skin registered somewhere in the back of his mind, but his conscious mind cared about little else than the fact that he wasn't alone. Not alone, or abandoned; he was cared for.

Viggo smelled faintly of sweat and a recent cigarette, but the arm around him was secure and strong. Orlando tried to swallow against the growing lump in his throat and blink his burning eyes to keep the embarrassing tears at bay, but to no avail. Viggo's hold of him tightened fractionally when he felt the hot tears running down Orlando's nose to where they were skin against skin, and finally disappearing under the collar of Viggo's shirt. Orlando felt him shift, and realised that he was all but draped over Viggo, partially on his lap and partially kneeling on the floor.

He was numb with fear on a level previously unknown to him, and this simple human contact managed to lend him some warmth, some quiet reassurance that somehow, some way, things would be all right again. It felt good. Orlando inhaled slowly, suddenly aware of Viggo's body underneath him and his scent invading his nostrils, and he realised that Viggo was sitting very still and quiet, his chest moving slightly in synch with his breathing. He wasn't prepared for it when the older man spoke.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said into Orlando's hair, his voice soft. “I thought you were hurt.”

Orlando couldn't answer, so he only nodded, wondering if he imagined the emotion in Viggo's voice. His fingers reluctantly eased their hold on the older man, finding a better spot on Viggo's thigh.

“Orlando,” Viggo said. Orlando didn't react at first, and Viggo repeated his name.

Orlando made a little noise in his throat, indicating that he was listening. His thoughts kept stumbling on one another, and one thought rose above all others; Viggo mustn't know. Viggo mustn't get involved in this mess. Which meant he should send Viggo on his way and not say a single word about how out of hand everything had got.

“Do you want to talk?” Viggo asked after a moment's silence.

Orlando took in a deep breath. He was afraid to say anything for fear of losing it. Why would Viggo care? Why should he care? They weren't an item, and they most certainly weren't in love. They weren't really even friends, not quite yet. Viggo owed him nothing.

“Not really,” he finally said, knowing that it was horribly inadequate

“Not really?” Viggo repeated, incredulous. “I come over to find you almost in a catatonic state, and still there's nothing to talk about?”

“I didn't say there was nothing to talk about,” Orlando said. “Just that I don't want to talk.”

That was oddly logical, but his mind was spinning in circles, and he feared that any minute now, he'd start screaming. The physical contact helped in making him feel safe, and so he didn't move, and hoped that Viggo wouldn't either.

Viggo didn't say anything, and Orlando relented. “Talking about it won't change a thing. Okay? You can't do anything about it, and neither can I. All the talk in the world won't make it okay.”

“Do you want me to go?”

Orlando shook his head fiercely. He knew he should tell Viggo to leave, but he couldn't. He doubted he could get off the floor if he was left alone. “I don't want to be alone, Viggo. I can't be alone right now.”

“Then let me stay with you.”

Orlando looked up at him mutely, not daring to ask how long Viggo wanted to stay for, and Viggo didn't offer anything further. Orlando curled up to him, his head finding a resting place on Viggo's collarbone, and that was okay.

“I've thought about getting a dog,” Orlando said, apropos of nothing, “but I don't know if I could care for one. Or if I know how to. It's just one of those things I keep telling myself I'll do, but I don't know how. I'm a bit of a drifter really. I suck at planning things. It seems like other people plan their lives and I just end up doing things and going places and don't really know what I'm doing.”

He realised he sounded a bit bitter, and stopped talking. He didn't like to talk about himself, anyway, although Viggo seemed to be the exception to the rule. He was a good listener.

“You've made yourself a success nonetheless,” Viggo said. “Give yourself a break, Orlando. No-one needs to have their whole life and future figured out at under twenty-five.”

“I didn't suck anyone's cock to become a model,” Orlando said. “I mean when people talk about how I was 'found'. I didn't suck anyone's cock in any seedy bar to get a calling card. A friend of a friend did some modelling and gave me this bloke's card who worked for an agency. I was bored enough to call. I always thought I'd move to L.A. some day.”

He left unsaid how terrifying it had been, relocating to California, with just a little bit of money and somebody's business card in his pocket, and how the first months had been crazy and hectic, filled with people and parties, and all sorts of advice coming from all sides and not all of it had been helpful, or good. A few years later and he was a part of the scene with new habits and a reputation to match. He hadn't even realised until now how exhausting it all had been, and how he hadn't genuinely enjoyed himself for a really long time.

“I never thought I'd move to L.A.,” Viggo said. “Sometimes you just have to go where your life takes you. You can't plan that.”

Strange that their paths had crossed, Orlando thought. Viggo practically never went out. Orlando had practically done little else in the recent years. The party boy meets the recluse, and sparks fly.

Orlando nodded against Viggo's chest. “I feel just so alone. Alone, and scared. I didn't used to be afraid of anything. God, if you only knew how that makes me feel.”

“You don't have to be alone, Orlando. I'm right here.”

They did end up in bed, but with clothes on. Orlando asked Viggo to use the guest bathroom for his toilette because the master bathroom was such a mess. Viggo looked curious at the semi-cryptic remark, but didn't insist on an explanation. This time it was Orlando's turn to offer Viggo a spare t-shirt for bed, because understandably, as a gentleman, Viggo hadn't expected to spend the night and didn't have an overnight bag with him.

Viggo brushed the hair back from Orlando's face, and met his eyes. Orlando matched his gaze, and didn't flinch when Viggo gently brushed their lips together, and then held him until he fell asleep.

* * *

Viggo was still asleep, but Orlando had barely slept at all. The thought of just leaving had crossed his mind more than a few times, but each time he rejected the idea with increasing vehemence. He had a life and a career here, he had friends and a home, and he wasn't going to run. He wasn't a victim, and if Davide thought he'd go running scared he had another think coming. Ignoring him was obviously not working, so there was only one thing he could do.

The bathroom door was firmly closed, and he steadfastly refused to acknowledge that there was anything in there that he needed to think about, or to act on. He knew he would have to deal with it eventually, but not while Viggo was here. He knew that Viggo would insist on the full story sooner or later, and Orlando opted for 'later'.

It didn't mean that he had to remain passive, however.

He cradled his mobile between his ear and his shoulder, nibbling on his thumb as he waited for his call to be answered. He was a bit surprised when it was picked up, because for sure he had to be screening Orlando's calls.

“'Allo?”

“Listen, you sick fuck. You come anywhere near me or mine ever again and you'll regret it,” Orlando said. He felt cold and calm, but his nails still punched crescents into his palm where his hand was balled. He barely even felt the pain. “And this is no joke. Back the fuck off or you'll be sorry.”

“Orli? What the fuck?” Some shuffling noises, and Davide making excuses to someone on the other end. “What do you want?”

“I'm warning you off, you sick freak. One more 'close call' and you're flying to jail, I swear to God.”

Orlando's vehemence surprised even himself. He'd never taken that tone with his ex, and he was starting to think that he should have, ages ago. Right after the first slap, in fact.

“You airhead idiot. I couldn't care less about what you get up to,” Davide said dismissively. “I don't know what the fuck you're going on about, but I'm not even in the country!”

Orlando snorted. “Yeah, right. Am I supposed to believe that?”

“Believe what you want. I'm in Europe actually. Spending time with some friends on my yacht, in the fucking Mediterranean, if you even know where that is. So take your accusations elsewhere or better yet, shove them up your ass for all I care. You were always pretty good at that.”

He sounded spiteful, and that tone got under Orlando's skin in a way that his insults never could, and he hated the fact that even after their break-up Davide could still affect him so. Davide had always enjoyed pointing out that Orlando had left school at sixteen, and implied at every opportunity that lack of further education translated to lack of intellect. For a while, Orlando had even believed him.

“Liar,” Orlando said, but his voice didn't sound quite as strong as before. “You said it wasn't over yet. Am I supposed to think that wasn't a threat?”

The bedroom door was still closed, and Orlando was relieved that Viggo wasn't present to listen to this discussion. He probably would have found Orlando pathetic. Orlando was too angry to manage a coherent and decisive reply, and like always, Davide didn't take him seriously.

Davide laughed. “Fine, I'm a liar. And you're still that same stupid spoiled whore who I'm incredibly glad not to have in my life anymore. Think what you like. Just don't bother me anymore.”

With that, Davide ended the call, and left Orlando standing with a mute mobile to his ear.

“You fucking liar,” he whispered, but wasn't suddenly sure of anything. He knew Davide had a yacht – not that he'd ever been on board – but was he really out of the country like he'd said? Even if he was...
“He could still hire somebody,” Orlando said to himself, and closed his eyes. Davide could easily pay someone to take care of all his dirty deeds in his stead.

But Davide had sounded so convincing, so righteous in his anger caused by Orlando's accusations that he suddenly felt quite shaken in his convictions. He hadn't even considered it could be someone else. For no-one else had it in for him. Right?

“Orlando?” Viggo was looking at him from the doorway, and Orlando flinched at the sudden sound. He hadn't heard Viggo get up. “Hey. Didn't mean to startle you.”

Viggo looked almost edible in Orlando's t-shirt and his own boxers, but for once Orlando was unable to enjoy the view. He thought he was going to be sick.

“It's okay,” Orlando said through lips that felt numb. Suddenly he felt nauseous, and cold. “Viggo, I'm sorry, but I'm not feeling too well. I need some time to think. I don't mean to be rude but could you please go? I'm sorry.”

Viggo looked pained. “Orlando --”

“I'm sorry. I know this is a bit sudden. I just need some time alone.” Orlando wrapped his arms around himself, because he wasn't even just cold anymore, he was practically shivering.

Viggo looked at him and frowned. “I must admit I don't feel too good about leaving you alone, but if that's what you want, I'll go. Give me a call if you need company. Or call your friend Elijah. You told me he's a stand up guy.”

Orlando forced a smile, desperate not to show Viggo how eager he was for him to leave. “I'll do that. And thanks for everything. I'll call.”

Viggo didn't look the least bit fooled by Orlando's faked smile, but he didn't say anything; he got dressed, folded Orlando's t-shirt and placed it on the end of Orlando's bed. Orlando watched him put on his shoes and was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet, feeling the need to expel the nervous energy somehow.

The second that the door closed behind Viggo, Orlando bolted to the door and fastened the security chain. It was a minor thing to do, but it made him feel a bit better nonetheless. It wasn't that he necessarily suspected Viggo of anything, but he wasn't sure of anything anymore, other than the fact that someone was out to get him, and he hadn't the faintest clue as to who it could be.

* * *

Mindless miles on the treadmill, one after another. Orlando was panting and sweating, and his thighs were trembling with exhaustion, but he pushed himself as far as he could go. Putting one foot in front of the other until he collapsed felt like a sound plan; let his body decide when it had had enough, because his head wasn't really in the right place these days. It wasn't until most of his thigh and leg muscles were screaming in protest that he turned down the pace, and walked a few more minutes to cool down.

It was perhaps an odd reaction, going to the gym after what had happened, but Orlando found that he couldn't stay in his apartment; he needed to go out and do something, and going to the gym was a part of his everyday routine, it was the familiar that he felt comfortable reverting to.

He frequented this gym partly due to the gorgeous vista that was best appreciated from the row of treadmills – a lovely ocean view that was ever changing – and partly because other celebs came here too and the clientèle was too used to them to be star-struck at the sight of yet another model. That, and the personal trainers and other staff were used to them too, and were discreet enough that Orlando didn't have to worry about the details of his training regime or his diet leaking to the internet or the gossip tabloids.

“Hey, aren't you that model dude?” someone asked, being the exception to the rule, and Orlando automatically turned to acknowledge the speaker. A young man, buff and burly, his mind registered, was looking him up and down, not in a flirtatious way, but as someone who was taking him in. Orlando pasted a smile to his face.

“Yes,” he said, and then buried his face in his training towel. God, he was dripping sweat from every pore of his body it seemed, and it felt great. If only he didn't have to small talk his way through his after exercise routine.

“I thought I recognised you. Dior, right?” the man asked, and then added, “my girlfriend will only buy me Dior.”

Ha, how wonderful, the girlfriend was brought up already, as inevitably happened when straight guys approached him. As if they felt the need to establish the existence of a girlfriend lest he think they were gay for knowing who he was. Of course, that still didn't stop some of them from approaching him for sex later.

“Great,” Orlando said, and took a long swig from his water bottle. “Keep it up, mate.”

“Um, could I take a pic for my girlfriend? She's never going to believe that I met Orli Bloom, in person.”

Yeah, sure, that's exactly what my agent most wants, pics of me red and sweaty circulating in the general public. Orlando shrugged and hopped off of the treadmill. “Sure.”

The guy dug out an iPhone and took a picture of Orlando posing with his water bottle. Some internal streak of mischief suggested to him that he should fellate the neck of the bottle and thus make the picture more interesting (and saleable), but he refrained, and gave a gorgeous smile, instead. His publicist would kill him for any stunt that put his name in the headlines again.

“Happy training,” Orlando said, and headed to locker room, his exercise for the day now finished.

He severely doubted he could get up again if he sat down, but damn if the thought of a relaxing half an hour in the steam room didn't have its appeal. He'd decide what to do after that. Maybe he should cross the pond again and relocate in London, his original home town; it wasn't as if he had to live in L.A like a movie star or something. But that was a thought for later.

The locker room was nearly empty, and by the time Orlando had stripped off his gym gear and wrapped a towel around his hips he was alone. That was absolutely fine by him; the last thing he needed right now was someone recognising him and having to talk to them. The steam room was somewhat crowded, however, and so Orlando headed to the sauna that was located in the back of the premises; his previous experience suggesting that he could find some solitude there.

Orlando sighed in bliss as he sat down and closed his eyes. It felt like every single muscle in his body was stiff and tense, and he made a mental note to book a massage as soon as he got out of there.

The steam condensed on his skin, making him wet all over, and Orlando pushed his hair back from around his face. He remembered vaguely that the cabin that Davide's family owned had a sauna in it; they had tried it a few times, and Orlando ended up fancying it quite a bit more than Davide did. He'd complained that it was simply too hot and humid* to be comfortable. Orlando refrained from telling him that hot and humid was exactly the point. Quickly, he banished the thought of his ex and deliberately tried to relax.

His hurry to get Viggo out of his apartment felt quite stupid now. Viggo had surely had nothing to do with any of what had happened, except in dealing with the aftermath and picking up the pieces. Still, Orlando couldn't shrug off the thought that it might not be the best of ideas to let Viggo get too close. He seemed to be bad news to the men who took interest in him, and Viggo didn't need a recovering addict with a sordid past and massive baggage in his life.

And who said that the person who was after him wouldn't go after Viggo? He could all too easily picture someone coming up to him in the parking garage with a tyre iron, and Orlando didn't want that on his conscience.

There was a slight noise from outside the door, and Orlando realised with a start that his towel had slipped and he was all but showing off his package, and corrected the towel just in case someone else was coming in. No-one entered, though, and Orlando relaxed again. Americans were so self-conscious about nudity, he thought; it was really quite silly sometimes, but when in Rome etc.

The heat worked its magic and Orlando floated on a cloud of no thought, only sensation. His skin was slippery all over, and he let his hands brush along his long thighs, feeling the supple muscles there, thinking that it had been a while since someone else had touched him like that – or at all. Sure, Viggo had jerked him off, but it wasn't like making love, body to body, nothing at all like taking your time to explore and appreciate and savour.

He decided that he did deserve a lover who was willing to do all that. Who didn't want him just to get another notch on their bedpost or to add his name to their list of conquests. It had been like that with Davide in the beginning, before the booze and the drugs and the jealousy and everything else came in and took away all that had been good about them. Not that it had been made to last in any case; Orlando hadn't been in love with Davide for all his charms, but they had had some good times before the bad times started.

His imagined lover had a familiar face and name, and Orlando allowed himself to think of Viggo. Not wanting to get caught wanking in the sauna, he kept his hands away from his cock and only briefly entertained the thought of making love to Viggo, and taking the time to do it the right way.

By the time Orlando resurfaced from his thoughts he had no idea how much time had passed, and he was starting a feel a bit thirsty, too. He realised he'd left his water bottle in the locker room, and decided it was time to hit the shower anyway and head home; he could call Viggo and ask if he wanted to come over for a movie and maybe dinner, because their plans from the night before had fallen through so completely. And of course apologise for his curtness that morning. Somewhere in the back of his mind lingered the idea of possible sexy times, but he pushed that thought aside for the time being.

He wrapped his towel more securely around his hips to avoid any indecent exposure and headed to the door. He pushed to open it, and was surprised when it didn't budge. Thinking that he was just trying it the wrong way he pulled at the handle, instead, but it didn't give. He pushed again, harder this time, remembering now quite distinctly that the door did open outwards from the room, but the door remained closed.

“What the fuck,” Orlando said, rolling his eyes. “Hello? Could someone open this door please?”

No-one answered, and Orlando suddenly remembered the noise he'd heard. Had someone pulled a prank on him and locked the door?

“Ha ha, you got me, joke's on me, can you open the door now?” No answer. “Somebody? God damn it, this is not funny. Anybody there?”

Orlando mopped his brow with his arm to keep the sweat from running to his eyes. God damn it, but it was hot. Was it actually getting warmer in here, or was that just his imagination? He heard the hiss of the steam and could have sworn that it was hotter now than it had been before. Unlike in the steam room, the floor wasn't cool to the touch, but was starting to feel really warm too.

“Let me out!” he shouted, and banged on the door with his fists, now in full panic mode. “Help! Somebody! Let me out!”

The gym didn't close this early... or did it? How long had he been here? Orlando realised he had no idea what time it was, and how long he'd been there. Had he fallen asleep?

“Help! I'm locked in here! Help!”

He didn't like the blind panic in his voice, but he couldn't help it any more than he could help his legs shaking, from both exhaustion and adrenaline overload.

Finally he stumbled, having exhausted himself, and sat down heavily, thinking wildly that he'd sell his soul for a drink. Water, Cristal, whatever but he needed to have some cool liquid running down his throat because it felt parched, and his eye vision was growing grainy.

“Help!” he shouted, and slapped his palm on the door. “Help! I'm trapped in here! Somebody!”

But no-one came, and finally, after what felt like hours of shouting, he had no strength left to do anything other than to lean his cheek on the wall, his eyes dry because there was no surplus moisture left in him.

* * *

“What the... oh my God. Brad! Brad! You'd better call 911, there's an unconscious dude in here! Oh, God. Oh, God.”

* * *

tbc in Chapter six

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 4/8

2013-05-20T04:35:10Z

Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other. Some OB/other action in this chapter.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs* Feedback is very much appreciated. :)

Previous chapters

Orlando pushed his shoulders back and affected an empty, bored look.

He couldn't quite envision why anybody should look bored wearing a pair of skimpy Armani swimming trunks and having two girls flanking him on both sides, both seemingly vying for his attention, but that had been the photographer's orders and Orlando was ever so good at following orders when it was about work. The girls were both staring up at him, their pink lips parted in lust, and he was to act the part of the jaded playboy.

Suited him just fine.

“That's the look!” the photographer said exultantly, and the camera went off and off, and Orlando did his best to clear his mind of all thoughts.

The girls giggled when they were asked to switch pose; the other girl was pulling at the behind of his trunks, as if trying to pry them off of him, and the other was told to place her hands on his hips, her head tilted as she struck a flirtatious pose that best accentuated her cleavage. Again Orlando looked far off and away from the camera, his mind clearly elsewhere, as though the girls didn't even make a blip on his radar. (He silently wondered if the photographer was envisioning a closeted gay bloke posing as a ladies man, since any straight man would be all over these girls at the drop of a hat, but then he was actually gay and didn't otherwise care in the slightest who or what he was posing as, since it was all just work.)

Orlando was glad that he never went fully pale, even in winter, because he hated self-tanning products like nothing else; the smell was always horrid and what's worse, you'd have to shave all over and Orlando was too fond of his leg hair to see it all go. The girls had fake tans (of course) and Orlando couldn't shake the idea that the Aussie girl was a shade too orange to look natural.

Then again, everyone was orange in L.A., so maybe he shouldn't judge.

Switch pose. Switch. Switch. Orlando couldn't hold back a smirk at the last one as they were getting into position; the girls were both sitting/kneeling in the sand, looking up at him with wide eyes and parted lips, and he was towering over them with his arms across his chest. Sexist as shit, but apparently it sold. The trunks were a bit ridiculous, anyway, since no red-blooded American male would ever wear such a skimpy pair without fearing being labelled as gay. Maybe they were targeting the gay populace, then, but what would explain the girls?

Of course it was all about the look, and the image. Armani men were sexy and successful and had gorgeous girls throwing themselves at them, without having to put in the least amount of effort.

After the shoot he donned his baggiest sweats and hoodie that he had worn coming in – no tight clothes, or underwear, so as to avoid lines on his skin – and downed a bottle of water. The lights were hot and he was thirsty, having had to refrain from too much eating or drinking all day to keep his stomach looking flat. The girls stuck around, talking with him and the photographer, and Orlando made sure to kiss them both goodbye and say they had been wonderful and that he wished to see them both again very soon and hopefully work together again sometime.

When he left the set he realised he didn't even remember their names.

* * *

Some weeks passed, and Viggo didn't try to contact Orlando.

Christmas rolled by as well, and Orlando sent a bundle of presents to his mother and sister across the pond, including a cashmere wrap for Sonia, and a Balenciaga bag for Samantha. He didn't get himself a tree or put up any decorations, but Elijah and Matt stopped by for a gift exchange the day before Christmas Eve. Apparently they were planning to spend both Christmas and New Year's with Matt's family in Connecticut and were flying out in a few days. Orlando bit his lip as he realised that he had no plans, and no heart to start making any.

Usually he had his calendar full well before December, but apparently since he'd stopped partying he'd become invisible to a lot of people he used to go out with. Out of sight, out of mind. Orlando didn't particularly care, but the contrast to what had been before was stark. And he wouldn't have minded some company. His mother did call on Christmas Day, and Sam sent a long e-mail thanking him for the presents, but otherwise he spent the holidays watching old movies and going to the gym.

What a glamorous life.

Orlando told himself that he shouldn't feel hurt, or disappointed, that Viggo hadn't even called. Joaquín was probably over and all too happy to pick up where they'd left off just like Orli Bloom had never been there. The man probably didn't even remember him, and if he did, he was probably congratulating himself for dodging the bullet. Orlando knew he wasn't a prize by any means. He had a lot of baggage, and any man who wanted anything more serious with him should have his head examined, pronto. And clearly, Viggo didn't want to be that man.

The white roses had stopped for the time being, but Orlando refused to let himself be lulled into a false sense of security. What did give him security were the changed locks, and the new alarm system wired up in his car.

On New Year's Eve he had just come home from the gym when he realised that someone had left a message on his answering machine on his landline. He dropped down his gym bag and pressed the necessary buttons to listen to the message.

“Hi, this is Joaquín, you know, Viggo's friend? He's having a party tonight to celebrate New Year with his friends and family. Anyway, I got the impression that he didn't remember to ask you to come, so I am calling in his stead. I thought you and I could get to know each other a bit better, too, no? Any time after ten pm is fine; I will let you in. Adiós.”

Orlando rolled his eyes at the message as he deleted it. Sure you'd like to get to know me. He knew he could probably further Joaquín's career if he just decided to take an interest in him, but he wasn't noble enough to do a favour for someone who insisted on engaging him in a pissing contest every time they were forced to communicate. It was clear that Joaquín considered Viggo his private property and that didn't sit well with Orlando.

As he was loading his clothes into the washing machine he kept thinking about the message and Viggo's party. He hadn't taken Viggo as someone who would throw parties left, right and centre, but then he didn't know Viggo much at all really. So Viggo hadn't called him, but there could be a number of reasons for that. Number one being the message he'd left behind where he had all but said goodbye.

However, if he wanted to consider Viggo his friend, he should act like one.

Perhaps he'd just make a quick appearance to say hi, and then leave him to party with his chosen companions. Of course it stung that Viggo hadn't invited him himself, but after his note, who could blame him? Perhaps Viggo had thought he wouldn't want to come, or that he'd be too busy. Oh, if he only knew. Orlando had had to cancel a couple of gigs because of the bruising, an act that hadn't exactly endeared him to his agent.

It could turn up to be a huge, gigantic mistake, but Orlando was infamous for not playing it safe. What was the worst that could happen? He was quite sure that Viggo wouldn't throw him out. Worst case scenario would be having to bear witness to Viggo and Joaquín necking in front of him. Still, Viggo had claimed not to be involved with anyone, and Orlando chose to believe him; just because Joaquín was a clingy little thing with some boundary issues didn't mean that Viggo actually cared about him.

His mind made up, Orlando threw his favourite shirt in the washing machine, deciding that if he were to turn up, he'd better dress the part.

Later in the evening, all dressed in black Versace, Orlando was buzzing on Viggo's doorbell, and as promised, it was Joaquín's voice that came through the voice-com and bid him to enter. He came to open the door with a drink in hand, which he readily handed to Orlando. They briefly shook hands, and Orlando forced a smile on his face. Joaquín was Viggo's friend, too, so they would just have to learn to get along.

“I'm glad you could come,” Joaquín said. “Viggo's head is in the clouds, what can I say? I don't know what he would do without me.”

“Thank you,” Orlando said, trying to see past Joaquín to the living room.

He could hear people talking and laughing, some music playing softly in the background, and suddenly he wanted to be a part of that group, wanted to be one of those Viggo considered his closest friends, an insider. He wanted to have the right to walk up to Viggo, wrap his arms around the man and plant the biggest, wettest kiss imaginable on his lips, unnerved and certain of a warm welcome.

“Just a moment.” Joaquín took Orlando by his elbow and pulled him aside, and out of sight of those in the living room. “Perhaps he hasn't explained things to you. Viggo's naughty like that, not explaining the rules to those he plays with. You care about him, no?”

“He's my friend,” Orlando said, lifting his chin slightly, refusing to be intimidated by this slip of a boy.

“Oh, a friend,” Joaquín nodded knowingly. “You're his friend, and I'm more than just a friend. You understand? You're beautiful and young, of course he likes you. Viggo likes everything that is beautiful.”

“Who doesn't,” Orlando muttered to himself and took a swig of his drink. It was strong, and burned going down his throat; Orlando made a mental note to keep count on the drinks he had. He'd gone without booze for four weeks now, and was bound to react more strongly to alcohol now than before his self-enforced period of sobriety.

Joaquín was looking at him through narrowed eyes as if gauging his reactions. “I know you slept here one night a week ago. Did Viggo fuck you? I don't think he did, he likes to take things slowly. But he has fucked me; do you want to know what it's like?”

Orlando shook his head, torn between amusement and disgust. He most certainly didn't want to hear any details concerning Joaquín's sex life, whether it included Viggo or not. His reaction didn't seem to matter much for Joaquín, who continued, undisturbed.

“First off, he's big,” Joaquín said. “And the way he fucks; like there's no tomorrow and no-one else in the world but you and him.”

“Right,” Orlando said, and brought his drink to his lips again. He could tell that this wasn't a conversation he'd want to partake in while sober, so why not get drunk?

“We're a good match, he and I,” Joaquín continued. “He's very passionate in the bedroom, very much like the Spanish in that regard. I remember when we met we spent two whole weeks barely leaving his bed; he just couldn't get enough of me. He couldn't see anyone else but me.”

“Sorry to hear that the romance has cooled off since then,” Orlando said and downed his drink in one go, Joaquín's words causing his stomach to burn. It took all his self-control to place his glass down on the tabletop instead of smashing it against Joaquín's pretty skull. “I think I saw someone I know, excuse me.”

Joaquín's smile never reached his eyes. “So long as you know that Viggo's not actually in the free market, niño bonito. He likes to play a bit but he always comes back to me.”

Orlando turned and left, not sure what he'd say if he stayed around, and headed to the living room. He grabbed a drink from a nearby table and gulped it down, needing the numbing effect of alcohol. That fucking spiteful pretty thing had a knack of getting under his skin, and he didn't like it one bit. He liked the idea of Viggo toying with him even less. Fuck, he'd actually believed the older man when Viggo'd said that he wasn't involved with anyone.

He mingled a little among the guests, recognising some of the people attending Viggo's party. One of them was another photographer Orlando had worked with before, and they were soon lost in conversation while Orlando downed one drink after another. Then the man asked about Davide, and Orlando didn't know what to say. The full story behind their break-up wouldn't be an appropriate topic for this setting, and Orlando didn't want to air his private business in front of strangers anyway.

“Oh, you know how it is. Too busy to settle down,” he dodged.

Did everyone really know about him and Davide? How much had Viggo heard through the grapevine? And more importantly, how much did he believe of it? Orlando realised he was drunker than he'd thought when someone bumped into him from behind and sent him stumbling right into Eric's arms. Not a bad place to be, incidentally, but Eric was married and Orlando didn't go for straight blokes.

“Hey, no need to throw yourself at me,” Bana chuckled and settled Orlando back to his feet. Orlando realised his knees felt wobbly and leaned his hip on a nearby table to keep himself from swaying. Just how much had he drunk? “I didn't know that you knew Viggo, or vice versa. Although I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Oh, really?” Orlando asked. “Is he fond of pretty young things?”

Eric laughed. “You said it, mate, not me.”

Suddenly Orlando felt nauseous; it seemed that his view of Viggo was very different from everyone else's. Hell, everyone here probably thought that he was Viggo's plaything, his toy for the night, chosen because of his youth and his face and his name. Maybe they were right and he'd mistaken Viggo for someone he wasn't, a knight in shining armour whereas he was just like the rest of them, always after the tastiest piece of ass.

He'd seen a few glimpses of Viggo, and he was quite sure that the older man had seen him, as well, but he hadn't come over once to say hi. Orlando was suddenly wishing that he hadn't come. What was he doing here, anyway, if he was so intent on avoiding Viggo? He couldn't deny it, he had been avoiding the older man ever since Joaquín had chosen to reveal some private things about what he and Viggo got up to together; things that Orlando could've done very well without ever knowing.

It was a mistake, Orlando realised, coming here so soon after disappearing from Viggo's guest room. Viggo was probably mad at him, and Orlando wanted to leave. He excused himself and headed to the door, his head pounding with each step he took. He hoped that he wouldn't run into Viggo now. He was sure that Viggo wouldn't appreciate finding him this drunk, not after what he'd told Viggo about himself and his earlier problems with booze. He could take pretty much anything, but he didn't want Viggo looking at him with disgust, or even worse, pity.

He bolted into the nearest available room when Viggo came from the kitchen, desperate to avoid a face-to-face meeting, finding himself in a toilet. He relieved himself and then leant on the toilet sink, watching his face in the mirror. His stomach was busy trying to decide whether to behave or to act up, and Orlando closed his eyes when the room seemed to spin around him. Too much alcohol too quickly. What a dumb-ass, he should know better than this. He should be better than this.

Orlando felt his knees wobble a little when he finally exited the toilet, and then someone bumped into him from behind, again.

“So you do feel as good as you look,” the woman said, letting go of his ass when Orlando turned. “Don't mind me, pretty meat just always gets to me.” She stuck out her hand expectantly. “I'm Christine, previously Mortensen. Viggo calls me Exene, but you can call me whatever you like, beautiful.”

Orlando gawked before his brain caught up. Viggo's ex-wife? She was brown-haired and not very tall, with a figure that was more curvy than skinny. He'd mentally pictured someone with long blonde hair and two-meter-long legs when Viggo'd mentioned having been married for a while. He realised that Exene was still waiting with her hand extended, and accepted it, shaking it a bit too excitedly.

“Oh, Exene! Orlando. People usually call me a fucker or a cunt, but mostly just behind my back.”

“Oh, I know who you are,” Exene said, dimples appearing on her cheeks, and then raised her voice in a shout. “Viggo! You piece of shit, you should've told me that the Face was going to attend. I would've worn my party knickers for the occasion.”

“Ex, leave him alone,” Viggo said from somewhere in the kitchen. “You'll scare him off.”

Orlando started at hearing Viggo's voice. So Viggo did know that he was here. Bollocks. Out of the window went his plan of leaving unnoticed. He shifted his weight on his other foot, and realised he was still feeling wobbly. Double-bollocks. He was drunk and Exene was looking at him like a fat cat looks a canary.

“I'm just checking if he's worth keeping,” Exene said. “Well, are you?”

Orlando's stomach did an odd lurch and his spine stiffened. “I don't think that's for you to decide.”

“Oh, the kitty has claws,” Exene said happily. “I was afraid you'd be one of the blank pretty things, primo face and no brain to talk about.”

Ha. Orlando knew plenty of people who would describe him using those very exact words.

“The kitty has claws, alright, and knows how to use them,” Orlando said, his words still slurring a little. “What're you having?”

Exene handed him her glass filled with pink liquid. “Taste it. Viggo makes those especially for me.”

Orlando took a little sip and made a face. Pure vodka with a little something just to change the colour.

“Fuck, this shit's strong. Good, too.” He tasted again just to be able to form an opinion, and before he knew it, he was holding an empty glass.

“Just the way I like my men,” Exene said. She eyed Orlando from head to toe and pursed her lips. “Jesus, I usually go for the rugged type but you're the prettiest thing I have ever seen. I'd bet you're just as gorgeous all around, without clothes and everything.”

A surprised giggle burst forth from Orlando's mouth at her straightforwardness; he was used to people, women at least, making subtle innuendo, not saying out loud just exactly what they were thinking. Men on the other hand didn't necessarily use any words at all.

“Some people think so,” he said, winking subtly. He wasn't too used to flirting with women, but he was also no stranger to trading a couple of suggestive words. “Why? Would you like to see for yourself?”

“You offering?” Exene's eyes twinkled, and there was a definite challenge to her words.

“See this?” Orlando slurred and grabbed his package. “It's like a cock, but bigger.”

Exene clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with mirth. The boy had balls alright. Time to see if he was all talk and no action.

“Any chance to see the uncovered version?” she asked archly after she'd regained her aplomb. “I know Viggo's got a couple of spare bedrooms around here somewhere.”

Orlando's drunken brain registered the name of the man he'd been avoiding all night, and his stomach tumbled again. He didn't want to think about Viggo.

“You interested in a test-drive?” he asked, pursing his lips as he regarded the woman.

She wouldn't have been quite his type even if he were straight, but he could easily understand why Viggo had chosen to give bisexuality a go and to marry this woman all those years ago. Right now she gave him a pouty smile and stepped closer, lowering her voice to a throaty purr.

“You bet your ass, lover boy.”

Before Orlando could react Exene had taken his mouth in a kiss, her tongue pushing inside his mouth past his teeth, and he let out a muffled noise in surprise. She kissed unlike any other female he'd kissed before, more intensely and aggressively, but it lacked the trademark roughness of a man's kiss, and thus lacked one of the key elements that turned Orlando on.

His eyes slipped shut as he allowed the kiss to continue, but then some sixth sense prompted him to open his eyes and see Viggo standing in the doorway, watching him and Exene locked in what must have seemed like a passionate embrace and then disappearing in the kitchen again. Not so quickly, though, that Orlando could have missed the momentary confusion and then the hurt in his eyes.

Stumbling away from her he made to follow Viggo, but Exene's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “You hurt him and I'll cut off your balls and feed them to my dog,” she said, all traces of playfulness gone. “Now go.”

Viggo was doing the dishes, and slamming the glasses and mugs on the counter with a bit more force than necessary, and Orlando hovered by the doorstep, biting on the insides his cheeks and wondering what to say. Perhaps he should apologise for showing up, and then acting like a wanker all evening, or perhaps he should begin by apologising for his flippant behaviour the other night. In any case, he felt like he owed an apology, and that, too, was another novelty. In the past, he'd apologised to no-one. No excuses and all that jazz. And now...

“You need any help with that?” he asked, aiming for casualness. Viggo glanced at him over his shoulder and shook his head. “You sure?”

“You've got lipstick smeared all over your mouth,” Viggo stated matter-of-factly. “Exene has been wearing that cherry color for at least a decade. Awful sight.”

Orlando rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing at Viggo's tone. Big fucking surprise, he'd fucked up again. Only, this time he wasn't sure exactly what it was that he'd managed to mess up. Viggo obviously wasn't after anything serious, and if Joaquín was to be believed the two men were sleeping together. And still it had been Orlando who'd run away each and every time. He wasn't used to this, feeling the need to explain and apologise when in the past he'd solved such problems by doing either more blow or his infamous disappearing act.

Another mug was slammed onto the table top, and Orlando winced at the noise. At this rate Viggo was going to break something. He just hoped it wasn't over his head.

“I know I'm shit,” he said, speaking slowly because his mouth didn't want to obey his brain and speak intelligibly. “See, Viggo. This is the real me; the Face. The kind of guy that will screw up a million times given the chance. What you see is what you get in its purest form.”

Bang. A delicate champagne flute ended on the table top all soapy and wet, and for a little while looked like it was going to topple over, but at the last moment righted itself.

Viggo dried his hands on the kitchen towel and turned around, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Don't you ever grow tired of your own bullshit?”

Orlando blinked. “What?” He cleared his throat and tried again, realising that for some reason Viggo wasn't listening. Viggo not listening must have meant that he was really, really pissed off. “Look, I'm trying to apologise here, okay? There's no need to be a fucking wanker about it, mate.”

“Was that an apology?” Viggo asked. “In that case you should try again, because frankly it sucked.”

Somewhere in the distance, people were counting the seconds for midnight.

“Why are you being such a jerk?” Orlando asked. “So I kissed your ex-wife, but so what? It's not like I'm the one fucking many people at the same time and playing some twisted mind games just because I can.”

A chorus of 'Happy New Year' sounded from the living room, glasses clinking together, but neither Viggo nor Orlando were listening.

“Are you saying that I am?” Viggo asked, still not raising his tone. “Don't project your own insecurities on me, Orlando. I know you're drunk off your ass and that kind of explains your behavior, but frankly that's beneath you and I don't want to listen to this.”

“Well, why don't you just throw me out then?” Orlando snarled, and took a step closer. “If I'm such a grand failure that you just can't stand the sight of me why are you still talking to me? Joaquín's in there somewhere, I'm sure he'd love to spread his legs for you any time. No need for me, yeah?”

“With that childish attitude, not really,” Viggo said, his face set and unreadable. “And really not when you're drunk. Now was there anything else you wanted? If not, you're free to go back and make out with Exene all you like. I'll bring out some canapés in ten.”

“Meaning, you're gonna sulk and pout here in the kitchen for the next ten minutes, and then come out to make me feel even shittier,” Orlando said, no longer caring what came out of his mouth. If Viggo wanted to be a complete asshole why would he have to be the one to act all nice and polite? “You were saying something about a childish attitude?”

“Damn it, Orlando!” Viggo's hands clenched the counter and he inhaled through his nose, trying to calm himself. “Are you completely blind and deaf to everything and everyone but yourself?”

“I know we aren't, so please keep the fucking noise down,” Exene said dryly from the doorway. “Seriously, go get a room and fuck that petty bickering out of your systems before you drive everyone else here mad.”

Viggo glared at her. “Ex, not now.”

Orlando hung back, not wanting to get in the middle of that conversation. Let Viggo deal with her. He closed his eyes and breathed in deep, wanting to clear his head. When he next opened them, the kitchen didn't seem to sway half as badly as before.

“Vig, yes now,” she said mockingly. “You get that pissed only when you're not getting any, and anyone can tell you want to pound that ass. Just look at that boy.” Exene shook her head at the expressions on their faces and chuckled to herself. “Fine, I know when I'm not welcome. Why don't I just go and tell everyone that the party's over and you two overgrown babies can then proceed to fuck and make up? It's New Year, anyway. Better kick it off with style.”

“Didn't know you were in the matchmaking business nowadays,” Viggo said dryly. “I do like your suggestion, though. At least the part where you make yourself scarce and leave us alone. The part with the overgrown babies fucking was a bit gross, though.”

“Fucker,” Exene said fondly and then turned to Orlando, giving him a genuine smile. “It was nice to meet you, Orlando.” She winked and blew him a kiss before disappearing again.

Orlando blushed hotly and looked away. “Bye,” he mumbled. He glanced up at Viggo through his lashes, his anger forgotten for the time being. “She's something else, isn't she?”

Viggo snorted and relaxed slightly. “You can say that again. Used to drive me absolutely mad when we were married.” He smiled a little. “Nowadays she's one of my few real friends.”

“Lets you know which of your boyfriends are for keepers, does she?”

Viggo's eyebrow rose. “She's a mother hen, but I'm a big boy. I can usually tell that by myself.”

“And I didn't pass that test, did I,” Orlando said.

He felt suddenly tired, and all of the residual fight left him. He didn't want to stand there with Viggo and have a shouting match. It suddenly dawned on him that this wasn't what he'd been after when he came here; he hadn't meant to avoid Viggo all evening just to snog his ex-wife and have a tiff with him later on. In fact, he'd been in a conciliatory mood until Joaquín had seen it fit to inform him of Viggo's abilities as a lover as well as the enthusiasm, frequency and exclusivity of their lovemaking.

Viggo's face changed and he shook his head. “There's no test. Orlando.” His voice was softer than usual and for the first time Orlando saw him indecisive. “I know you don't need another older man telling you what to do any more than I want to be that man. I just don't know what I'm able to give you right now. ”

“I thought we'd be friends, at least,” Orlando said slowly, as if uncertain. At least he wasn't slurring anymore, and he counted that as a big victory; Viggo wouldn't be able to chalk up his words to alcohol; at least not all of them. “I'm such a mess. I know I am. And honestly, I don't expect anything from you. I have a lot of issues that I'm dealing with, and that's putting it lightly. I can't clean up my act overnight, yeah?”

“I suppose I could quit being a judgmental asshole,” Viggo said, a small smile tugging on one corner of his mouth. “So...”

“Yeah?”

“Happy New Year.”

Orlando laughed. “Happy New Year to you too. Here's hoping for a year with fewer fuck-ups.”

“I'd drink to that,” Viggo said, and Orlando could tell from his tone that he meant it. “I should probably go and check if everyone left already.” He tugged on his earlobe and chuckled. “Some host I am.”

“I'm sorry if I ruined your party,” Orlando said and plopped down onto the kitchen chair, staring at the table top. There was a bowl of potato chips placed in front of him on the table, and Orlando stared at the pile of fat and carbs in drunken fascination. He then shook his head, trying to focus. They were having a serious conversation and it wouldn't do to mentally check out at this point. “I swear I didn't mean it to go like this. I really wanted to see you and talk to you, but...”

His words trailed off. He didn't mean to sound like he was making excuses, but Viggo seemed to understand, because he nodded.

“Let me guess; Joaquín said something.”

“Yeah.” Orlando chewed on the side of his thumb and then settled his hands back on the table. “He did. And I guess I reacted exactly the way I was meant to. Shit. I should know better. I really didn't mean for this to go like this.”

“He doesn't play well with others,” Viggo said. Orlando nearly chuckled at this understatement. “I guess mommy didn't teach him to share.”

“So, you two are an item then,” Orlando said, and his eyes left Viggo's in sudden disappointment. “I wish you'd told me that before --”

“No, we're not. Orlando. We're really not.” At Viggo's tone of voice Orlando was forced to meet Viggo's eyes again, and they were honest. “What I meant was, he's not really used to having to share my attention with someone else. Like I said that one time when we were having coffee, I don't have that many friends in town. He's used to having me all to himself. And then you come along, glowing and beautiful and larger than life, and he lashes out. He's not my lover and I'm not his, no matter how hard he tries to convince you otherwise.”

Viggo just called him beautiful. Orlando didn't want to read too much into it, since people called him beautiful all the time.

“No need to explain,” Orlando said quickly. “I hardly have any room to judge. It’s not as if if I know anything about men or relationships.”

“Hey now. Nothing that you couldn't learn.”

Orlando raised a tired eyebrow. “We're still talking about me? Come on, it's me, Orlando. I have no idea how to be in a relationship with someone. I mean, the bed stuff, that's easy. But then they start having expectations and demands and needs and I can't deal with that.”

He took a potato chip from the bowl in front of him, and munched on it thoughtfully. He hoped he didn't look like he was spacing out. In truth, he was hungry. Maybe Viggo could magically produce some of those canapés he'd talked about?

“Maybe concentrating less on the bed stuff could teach you something about the other,” Viggo said carefully. “Or yourself.”

“Is that a posh way of saying 'quit being a whore and talk to the guy before sucking his cock'?” Orlando chortled at Viggo's expression, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You still surprised at the potty mouth?”

“I'm starting to expect surprises from you,” Viggo said, and Orlando's stomach tightened at the look in his eyes.

“I guess I should go home,” he said, his throat suddenly dry, canapés forgotten.

Viggo was watching him across the room, and he had the feeling that if he stayed they'd be doing exactly what Exene had told them to do before leaving them alone; rutting on the table like animals in heat, and Orlando wasn't sure if he could take that. It was just sex and nothing he hadn't done before, but he felt vulnerable in a way that didn't feel all that comfortable.

Maybe it was because he knew he could never view Viggo as an ordinary fuck that could be ditched after the deed, maybe it was because he couldn't take it if Viggo simply wanted a piece of tail and nothing more.

“Good night, Orlando. Although you're still welcome to spend a night here, if you wish.”

Orlando paused on the doorstep, his back turned to Viggo, and smiled. “G'night, Vig.”

* * *

The following week, something resembling a truce was made; Viggo called Orlando's mobile, and Orlando invited him over for dinner on Thursday night, promising a home-cooked meal. After the call ended he banged his head against the fridge door, because he couldn't actually cook to save his life, but the words had just come out of his mouth before he could reconsider them. However, the last thing he wanted was to go out with Viggo and risk the paparazzi and the gossip that would follow; besides, he wanted a more intimate setting just in case... He didn't complete that thought.

That week he was working on the photo shoot for the US Vogue editorial, this time donning Balenciaga; minimal make-up, hair slicked back and black clothes thrown seemingly haphazardly on him while he stretched himself over furniture and gazed out of windows with haunted eyes while the camera went off and off and off.

He was nervous, finding himself biting his fingernails and smoking cigarette after cigarette on his breaks until his throat felt raw and rough. It was pathetic, feeling so out of sorts just because a bloke was coming over; Orlando was used to entertaining all sorts of company, and he certainly never had to worry whether the others liked him, or what they really thought. Of course they adored him, because everybody did.

Viggo, on the other hand, was different. More important, for one. For some reason, his opinion mattered, and as much as Orlando tried to tell himself that Viggo had already seen him at his worst and still liked him, it didn't calm his frayed nerves much.

What did he really have to offer? They had talked about being friends, but what good was Orlando as a friend? Now that he'd given sobriety a shot, his friends and mates, people he had thought cared about him, had suddenly vanished as if they'd never been there in the first place. Only Elijah was loyal as ever, ringing him up at least a couple of times a week, asking him to come over and laze around, or go and grab something to eat together. The problem was, Orlando wasn't good at ordinary things. He didn't deal well with boredom, or routine.

Orlando sighed. He would have to learn. For once in his life he would make an effort to be the kind of person that Viggo could be friends with; he wanted to be worthy of that friendship, and not just for Viggo's sake, but his own. He needed to do this for himself.

* * *

“I'm turning into a fucking bore.” It came out sounding more whiny than Orlando would have liked, but he was past caring. Thursday was still days away, and he was starting to feel jittery again.

“You need to go out more, bello,” Andrea said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Let's go out tonight. I have some friends who'd like to meet you. Let's take them to some gay bar and just dance the night away.”

“Andrea, you're so bad,” Orlando moaned and hid his face in his hands. “I shouldn't go out drinking. You know where that'll lead.”

“Um, I didn’t say drinking, you beautiful moron, I said dancing,” Andrea said, and eyed him. “Orli, come on. There's this Danish boy you'd really like. I promise. And who says you have to fuck the dude if you don't want to.”

Orlando looked at him glumly, but had to admit that Andrea was right; just because he went to a bar didn't mean he had to get wasted. And just because he danced with somebody didn't mean he had to fuck them afterwards. And damn, it was getting fucking boring lounging home all day, every day, even if he did maintain his gym routine and had met some friends for coffee that week.

And he needed to do something that didn't include fretting over his dinner date with Viggo.

“You're on,” he said to Andrea. “It's been a while since I last went out, actually. Gotta keep up the rep, right?”

It was hard to tell whether the stares were due to his face, or his celeb status, but Orlando was more than conscious of all the looks he, and they, were drawing; and why wouldn't they? Andrea's friends, Roberto and 'the Danish boy', had turned out to be models, too, and Orlando could admit without conceit that they were the four most beautiful dudes in that bar. That wasn't to say that the other boys and men weren't good-looking, though; the place was all but packed with beautiful Latinos and gringos alike, and the dress code seemed to be 'shirtless' tonight. Orlando reckoned he was garnering enough attention as it was, and left his tank top on.

Andrea went to talk to the bartender that he knew – and hooked up with every now and then, although more rarely now that he was seeing someone – and Orlando took his friends out on the dance floor. Roberto found a willing dance partner soon enough, and Orlando took it on himself to entertain Andrea's other friend.

'The Danish boy' turned out to be a gorgeous, blue-eyed and blond youth named Steen, whose grasp of English was a bit sketchy at best. He was cute, though, and awfully tall, and Orlando thought they made a funny sight on the dance floor, grinding on each other, but maybe not so funny after all because Andrea kept throwing him 'told you so' looks all evening and Steen started to get a little grabby with his hands.

The music washed over them, and Orlando raised his arms in the air and closed his eyes, swaying to the sultry beat, and smiling as he felt Steen's hands slip under his tank top and slide down along his ribs to his waist. He smiled because in the not too distant past, he'd always taken such actions for come-ons and been on his knees in the backroom in less than ten, an arrangement that had always suited everyone. He'd had a few drinks, so he was pleasantly buzzed, but when Steen offered to get him another drink Orlando only requested ice water.

“Vogue shoot in the morning,” he said, and Steen looked at him in complete awe and went to get his water.

“Get that while it's hot,” Andrea said to his ear as soon as Steen disappeared in the writhing mass of bodies. Orlando grinned. Andrea was a sucker for hot blonds. “Che bello! He's only been in town for a couple of weeks. Fresh out of the air plane almost.”

“Actually, I'm thinking about maybe starting to see someone,” Orlando said, “and that someone's not your gorgeous Danish friend. So why don't you go for it? He's cute, from what I've seen.”

Andrea rolled his eyes. “Spoken for, remember. Which means no more flings for poor old me.”

“Yeah, poor you,” Orlando said, and then accepted the water bottle from Steen who returned miraculously quickly. Orlando suspected that Andrea had sweet-talked the bartender into giving them VIP service for the evening. “Thanks, love.”

Steen encouraged Orlando to wrap his arms around his neck, and they danced face to face, their hips pumping to the beat, and Orlando looked a bit perplexed when Steen's hands combed his sweaty hair back from his face and then leaned in to kiss him on the lips. He reflexively raised himself on his tiptoes to meet the kiss better, because Steen really was that tall, and Steen deepened the kiss immediately.

He didn't have to think, or to reflect, or to analyse, he only had to feel the damp heat of the other's body against his own, the tongue in his mouth, the hand that was in his nape and was holding him steady, and for that moment it was all he needed, or could ever want.

Then Steen's other hand went to his ass, and Orlando broke off the kiss, slightly out of breath. Steen might not know English all that well, but he knew how to kiss.

“Sorry, love, I'm not really available,” he said. “You see, you've caught me at a really bad time. Bad luck on your part, because just a few months ago I would've happily blown you in the gents if you'd asked, and just because you asked and were cute. But I was doing drugs then and I would've been totally wasted, anyway, so that would've played a major part. But to get to the point, I kind of like someone right now and it'd be tacky to start cleaning someone else's pipes at a gay bar while we're still figuring things out.”

“Hvad?” Steen said, perplexed, and Orlando rolled his eyes and laughed.

“Hands off the ass, okay?” he said. “But I don't think a few kisses hurt.”

They didn't hurt, and they thankfully didn't incite in him the lust to get on his knees, and so they danced and kissed the night away, drawing looks and a few wandering hands from the people all around them.

It felt liberating to realise that he didn't owe anyone anything. That he could dance, and flirt, and buy drinks for the other boys and didn't have to feel guilty, or try and make out which one – or ones – wanted to have sex with him and whether he should comply. Quitting your vices didn't mean you had to turn yourself into a recluse, or stop having fun on nights out, he decided. It only meant you couldn't do lines in the men's room, or from some bloke's ass, and didn't have to choke on anyone's dick when they were too drunk to be considerate, or thought it looked hot.

But when Steen started to get frisky again, Orlando delegated him to his acquaintance Luke, who was a regular he'd got to know and whom he knew had a thing for blonds, and that way everyone came out as a winner.

And when he was in the taxi on the way home, he left a definitely non-slurring voice message on Viggo's mobile, telling him that he would be home sometime after eight on Thursday and Viggo would be welcome any time after that and Orlando couldn't wait to see him then.

* * *

tbc in Chapter five

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 3/8

2013-05-13T08:49:30Z

Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs*

Previous chapters

Orlando drove on without actually watching where he was going, his foot heavy on the accelerator, and had to hit the brakes and swerve when he realised he was heading into on-coming traffic. Imagining the headlines if he had a second car crash in two days, he slowed down, and started to dig around in his jacket pocket for his mobile phone. His hands shook so badly he first dropped the phone in his lap, and could flick it open only after the second try.

The first person he could think of was Viggo, and he hastily dialled Viggo's number, not pausing to think. Too much thinking led to panicking, he'd found, so it was best to try and avoid that at any cost.

He held the mobile to his ear and tried to keep an eye on the traffic, blinking furiously to keep from crying, and praying that Viggo would pick up the phone. The moment seemed to stretch and just as Orlando was starting to think that Viggo wasn't home, his call was answered.

“Viggo?”

A brief silence greeted him before a young male voice replied. “Who's this?”

Orlando bit his lip and squeezed the steering wheel a bit tighter to keep his hands from shaking. Fuck. Shit. “It's Orlando. Orli Bloom. And this is... Joaquín, right? Can you get Viggo?”

“We were kind of in the middle of something,” the young man said lazily, his tone packed with implication. “Is this important?”

Orlando was just about to hang up when he heard Viggo saying 'who's that' in the background and then “Hello?” to the receiver. He could've cried in sheer relief.

“Viggo, it's Orlando,” he said, and brought his fist to his mouth to keep from launching into a hysterical babble. Unshed tears pricked his nose, and he let out a muffled little noise. Way to go, Bloomie. This wasn't the right time or place to fall apart. “I... fuck, never mind, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called.”

“No, don't hang up!” Viggo said quickly, and then, “Where are you? Are you driving?”

“Yeah,” Orlando said, squeezing his slim phone between his shoulder and ear as he stopped at the traffic lights and had to change gear. He sniffled and cleared his throat, determined not to bawl like a baby into Viggo's ear. He could do it, he had to.

“Pull off,” Viggo said. “You don't sound like you should be driving.”

Orlando had to laugh at the absurdity of the statement. “Viggo, I can't pull off. The traffic's jammed enough as it is. That'd cause a total ruckus!”

“Would make it easier to locate you, though,” Viggo said with a hint of smile in his voice. “So where are you?”

“Um,” Orlando said, and had to check the location from his GPS, relaying information to Viggo. He wasn't really going anywhere; he'd just needed to get as far away from Davide's place as possible. “I'm coming from Long Beach,” he elaborated.

“There's a small motel somewhere in that area, one of those pay by the hour places, with a huge sign in the shape of an apple.” Viggo mentioned the name of the motel, speaking quickly as if afraid that Orlando would hang up any second. “Wait for me there.” He paused and continued when Orlando said nothing. “Promise you'll wait for me.”

The lights turned green and Orlando hit the accelerator. “Fine, I promise.”

Just five minutes later he pulled off on the parking lot and had to smile despite himself. Somehow, a run down pay-by-the-hour motel wasn't the kind of place he'd expected Viggo to know about.

He paid for the room, ignoring the pointed looks from the receptionist – the plus side was that the guy didn't seem to recognise him – and then headed upstairs. The room was small with a narrow bed and stained carpets, but it wasn't like he was going to stay overnight, right? He plopped down onto the armchair by the window and scrunched up his nose at the sight of the greasy glass. Thank god he could afford to stay in decent hotels nowadays. He texted the room number to Viggo's cell and waited, drumming his knees with his fingers. He hated waiting on principle, but was grateful for the chance to calm down and collect himself before Viggo arrived.

Finally there was a knock on the door and Orlando all but flew across the floor to answer it. Viggo stepped in, holding his car keys, with a worried look on his face.

“Are you okay?”

Orlando nodded and reached to brush Viggo's arm. “Thanks for coming. I don't really know why I called. A bit of an emotional meltdown, I guess.”

“What happened?”

Orlando's mouth twisted into a half-smile as he sat down. “I told you I'm dealing with a difficult break-up, yeah?” Viggo nodded and Orlando exhaled softly. “Seems it's worse than that.”

Shakily he recounted what had happened since he'd arrived home the night before, and Viggo's face turned serious as his story progressed.

“Have you called the cops?” he asked.

“What, you think they'd come?” Orlando breathed out a quiet little chuckle as the shock finally started to wear off. “You think they'd care about two homos having a little tiff? Because I'm telling you, unless someone’s been murdered the coppers won't give a shit, and I don't think we're quite there yet. The driver missed, didn't he?”

“Not funny,” Viggo said quietly. “He's dangerous. Next time it'll be poisoned food, or failed brakes in your new car. I don't want you staying there all by yourself.”

“What should I do then, move out?” Orlando asked, his voice rising. “I'm already having the locks changed. God, how stupid! I know Davide. I know that guy; I've slept with him, and now I'm running from him like some cowardly little housewife with a violent hubby. And what has he done, anyway? Leaving roses is hardly a crime, and that driver was probably just drunk or high as a kite.”

“I still think you should call the cops,” Viggo said. His hands were clasped together loosely and he was leaning on his knees with his elbows, looking at Orlando across the room. “Have a friend stay over. Have someone keep an eye on your place. There's a lot of things you can do and none of them are cowardly.”

Orlando held himself tightly, staring unseeingly at the wall. Viggo was watching him closely, in fact he was all but studying his face, and Orlando guessed from his look that he didn't like what he saw. He offered Viggo a tight-lipped smile that did nothing to convince the older man, willing his lips to stop trembling, and then took another deep breath.

“I don't want to die,” he said quietly, surprising himself.

He hadn't intended to say that; he'd thought to say something flippant and witty to ease Viggo's worries a little, but he didn't have it in him. There was no fight left in him, no supply of strength he could draw from, and he was tired of acting strong when he was scared shitless.

“I don't want to die,” he repeated, and then a sob was wrenched from his lips, followed by another.

It was a split second before Viggo scrambled onto his knees and then he was holding Orlando, pressing him against his chest and his steady heartbeat.

“You won't,” he said. “He won't get to you, I swear. I swear to you, he'll never get the chance to hurt you again.”

Orlando squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in the smell of Viggo, thinking dimly that he already associated his scent with feelings of safety and being cared about. When Viggo leaned in, Orlando's head surged up and pushed their mouths together.

It was crazy, this mindless haze of lust now clouding his brain, but at least it didn't give him time to think, or to analyse; only to feel, and touch, and enjoy.

He needed to feel something to convince him that he was okay. The numbing fear that had settled into him paralysed him, and Orlando had lain too long in the hospital fearing exactly that to welcome that feeling. Pain was better; that, he knew how to deal with. Lust was even more familiar, and more comforting, because he could just give and give and give and not stop to think about what he felt, or needed, or wanted.

Orlando's fingers tugged at Viggo's overgrown hair, pulling him closer in desperation, almost as if he could pull the older man inside himself with a mere kiss. Teeth nipped at lips, wet tongues met and explored, and Orlando's head spun with the heady taste of Viggo's mouth.

Viggo's arms cradled him and held him fast; providing an anchor to Orlando's fierce twisting and pulling, and this time the young man's panted breaths did not speak of agitation and panic but of desire and lust.

Viggo pulled back and stood up, and Orlando wasted no time in taking off his jacket, kicking off his shoes and undoing his belt. He pushed down the waistband of his jeans, groaning as the fabric bunched around his equally hard cock and pinching his sensitive parts. Viggo stood there in front of him, watching him undress with a heated expression and breathing heavily, his quiet stance a stark contrast to Orlando's quick passion and heat.

“See something you like?” Orlando asked, seduction heavy in his voice, spreading his legs in blunt invitation.

Desire and desperation sung in his veins, making his heart thump and his palms sweat, and he couldn't help but stare at Viggo, wondering how this man could reduce him to a whimpering pile of need with a simple kiss.

“Yeah,” Viggo said and dropped down onto his knees, and then his hands were defeating the last buttons of Orlando's jeans and baring the treasures hidden underneath.

Orlando bit his lip and let out a hiss as Viggo's hand closed around his cock. He let his head fall back and concentrated on not coming too soon, because Viggo's palm seemed to be stroking him everywhere at once, hot as coals. He squeezed harder when his hand reached the top, and then eased on the downward stroke, and Orlando's hips started to partner the cadence Viggo had set.

He'd expected Viggo to grab him and turn him over, or to demand Orlando to first stand up and then kneel, and this unexpected display of willingness to please turned him on no end.

God, but Viggo knew how to give a handjob. Orlando's head spun and he jutted up his hips, wanting nothing more than to come, relieve the tension that had been coiling inside him for days now; come, and lose himself, trusting that Viggo would catch him when he fell.

Feeling Orlando tense and hearing the small hitch in his breath, Viggo quickened the pace of his stroking; Orlando's hips stuttered and his cock spurted white streaks of come all over his abdomen. He panted through an open mouth, his heart rate through the roof, mind spinning with pleasure.

Orlando's hips moved languidly as he rode his climax to its inevitable end, and Viggo gentled him down from his peak with gentle stroking.

“God,” Orlando said, and then raised his head. “How about you?”

Viggo shook his head, and stood up. The front of his trousers was tented, but Viggo's hands didn't go to his belt. Orlando had been prepared to give him a quick suck or wank, but Viggo didn't seem predisposed to that idea.

“It's fine,” he said.

Orlando allowed his head drop back and thought about the situation. A one-sided handjob at a motel room wasn't his usual MO; he was more accustomed to luxurious suites and sex acts that required more active participation from him.

Damn if he knew if this was a mistake. His mind still spinning, and opting for the safest route, Orlando went for flippant.

“You sure you're not in the wrong business? People actually pay for 'happy endings',” Orlando said and reached for his jeans.

He avoided Viggo's eyes while he redressed and sat down to put on his sneakers, biting hard on his lower lip to keep all other words at bay. Viggo didn't need to hear his pathetic whimpering about being afraid. He didn't need to know what a weakling he was.

He realised it wasn't all that warm inside the room, and the lassitude from his orgasm was quickly fading. He felt stupid and cheap, and he couldn't get over the thought that he and Viggo had just had casual sex in a seedy hotel room. What the hell was wrong with him? What in the world drove him to sleep with each and every male around him? Orlando threw on his jacket and almost sprinted at the door.

“Orlando, wait.” Viggo's voice reached him just before he opened the door.

“What?” Orlando's hand trembled where it was clutching the doorknob. “What, Viggo? What more do you want from me?”

“I didn't come here so that we could have a nice little rendezvous,” Viggo said tightly, and this time his voice came from a lot closer. He gently took Orlando by his shoulders and turned him around. “Talk to me. I swear I won't jump you a second time.”

“I don't trust myself,” Orlando blurted. “With men, I mean. With you. I can't seem to solve my problems without jumping in the sack with someone. Davide was right. I'm just a stupid spoiled slut who will be happy as long as there's a cock up my arse and some blow up my nose.”

“Is that true?” Viggo asked. “Because if you can look at me in the eye and tell me that random hook-ups and rich stuck-up sugar daddies make you happy, I'll leave you to it and no questions asked. But just for the record, I don't buy that.” His eyes searched Orlando's and held them, and the younger man saw the honesty within. “I think Davide's full of shit and was grasping at straws to be able to keep you, to plant insecurities in your head and to pay you back for leaving his sorry ass.”

Orlando shrugged and dropped his eyes. “I.. I just want to stop being afraid of him. And things. I don't want to be this pathetic little wimp that I've become.” He swallowed and continued softly. “I want to feel safe again.”

He found that he was all but trembling in Viggo's arms, and his knees felt wobbly, ready to give in any second. He realised he was exhausted, and the dingy bed of the hotel room started to look appealing again. Orlando raised a hand and rubbed his eyes, grateful when Viggo led him back to the bed, and sat down.

“I'm gonna be better when I wake up,” he said with confidence he didn't feel. “I'm sorry I dragged you all the way here. I reckon you could've got all that and more at home without all this extra trouble.”

Orlando couldn't help the snide words; they just seemed to tumble forth from his mouth. The tone Joaquín had used when he'd said that he and Viggo were busy hadn't been that hard to interpret; it implied that Joaquín was Viggo's to use and to entertain in any manner Viggo wanted. It made Orlando's blood boil, even if he didn't really know why it should matter to him. Why should he care who Viggo slept with? They had made no promises or even discussed anything of the sort. If Orlando had developed a stupid crush it certainly wasn't Viggo's concern.

Viggo frowned. “I don't have a lover waiting for me at home,” he said. “I wouldn't have done what I just did if I was already involved with someone.”

Orlando shrugged as he toed off his sneakers for the second time. “Never mind.”

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Are we playing twenty questions?” Viggo asked. “You're not staying at this seedy motel, Orlando. Nor are you going home alone in this state. The least I can do is offer you some company. And a better bed than this.”

Orlando looked dubious. “If that's a pick-up line --”

Viggo's eyebrows twitched in amusement. “Swear to God it's nothing of the kind. Just a place for you to rest in.”

“I'm not leaving my car here,” Orlando said, just to make sure they were on the same page.

“So why don't you follow me to my place? I'll cook something and tuck you in. If you feel you're fit to drive, that is.”

“Will Joaquín be there when we get back?”

Viggo shook his head. “Nah. We're done for today, so you'll have to settle for my company.”

“Let's go, then.”

* * *

“Thanks,” Orlando said when they were in the elevator again. It wasn't enough, he knew that, but it would have to suffice for now. He wrapped his arms around himself, because he felt like shivering. Aftershock, he guessed. You couldn't really call this afterglow.

“What for?”

“For letting me come home with you.” Orlando glanced at him briefly and then looked away again. “For coming to get me. And for not treating me like a paranoid freak just because I don't feel comfortable going home, alone.”

“It's what friends do, isn't it?” Viggo said.

“Are we friends, though?” The memory of the handjob was nagging at him; for all of Viggo's protests, he couldn't shake the idea that he'd been acting the whore's part, again. Sure, Viggo had been the one to perform the actual sexual act, but Orlando had been the seducer. It seemed he couldn't avoid that even if he tried. So why should he try?

“I'd like to think we're friends,” Viggo said. “Maybe more, given time, but I think that's a bit too soon for both of us right now.”

Orlando smiled, a little more at ease now. “That sounds good to me.”

The elevator came to a halt at Viggo's floor, and Viggo let them in with his key. Orlando took a look around, apprehensive, just in case Joaquín was still there, but to his relief the apartment was empty. Orlando kicked off his shoes and followed Viggo to the living room, finding a seat right next to him on the couch.

They glanced at each other and then looked away, and Orlando knew that Viggo was thinking about that handjob too. And repeating that, or taking it further. would be a massive mistake. Orlando tried to think of something to say that didn't concern sex or murder attempts, but was glad when Viggo beat him to it.

“So, last time we were here you mentioned something about your sordid past,” Viggo said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Orlando threw his head back and laughed despite himself. “Sordid, yeah. Or not so much. I think I was just your typical teen with existential angst or whatever. Feeling like I was the first person to realise that routine is boring, and growing up is dull.” He smiled slightly, staring at nothing in particular. “I was free to do whatever stupid shit I wanted; now, if I pull anything that could be even remotely considered silly I'm reminded that I'm endangering my career. Sodding career.”

“So, what did you do?” Viggo asked. “Before, I mean. Before your career.”

Orlando shrugged. “This and that. I was a consummate adrenaline junkie. You named it, I jumped from it. I think that was some kind of childish glee of being alive, and free. No-one telling me what to do.”

“Other than your own sense of ambition,” Viggo said, and Orlando knew that he understood. “You know, it's hard to imagine a person whom you just described making a successful career of being bossed around. This isn't exactly the friendliest industry for someone who doesn't take orders well.”

“They're a lot kinder after a blowjob or two,” Orlando said blandly, and saw Viggo flinch a little. “No-one I know of hasn't got on their knees at some point, even the straight guys. You blow some bloke, and act professional about it, and maybe, maybe he'll decide to remember your face and name at the right time.”

“That sounds a bit like prostitution to me.” Viggo's tone wasn't quite disapproving, more thoughtful. “And you're just proving my point about this not being a very friendly industry.”

Orlando shook his head. “It's trading one favour for another. Everyone knows what they're getting. Fair play.” He aimed a teasing smile Viggo's way, making an effort to play it down. “Are you seriously telling me that you've never taken advantage of all that young flesh around you? All that 'Oh, Mr. Mortensen, let me just suck your cock a little.' I'm impressed. Or disappointed, maybe.”

“Well, damn, I seem to be hanging with the wrong crowd,” Viggo joked. “I try not to mix work and pleasure. Joaquín's pretty much the only exception that I'm starting to wish I hadn't made.”

“Yeah, I do get your point,” Orlando said and made a face. “I'm not actually too fond of this whole thing. It's just a job, you know. Something that I'm good at. You know, my agent said that I've got a few offers from some TV shows for a role. Typically CSI type of stuff where I'm the murder victim and don't have any lines to speak of. Appealing as that sounds I don't think I'm going to be stopping modelling for a while yet. I'd like to have an alternate career figured out first.”

“You'd have the face for television,” Viggo said. “Or the big screen, if you wanted.”

“Yeah, that, and also really bad case of dyslexia. Which probably explains why I'd be playing the dead guy,” Orlando said, and then fell quiet.

They glanced at each other occasionally, and finally Orlando broke the silence. “Not to sound spoiled, but would it be possible for me to have a shower?”

Viggo showed him to the guest room and the adjoining bathroom, and left Orlando to refresh himself, promising to deliver a little something to eat later. While Orlando was showering, he took out a clean pair of sweats and a t-shirt, and left them out on the bed.

Orlando took a long, hot shower, realising that he was still shivering despite the heat. Viggo had been right to insist that he shouldn't be alone. He simply stood under the spray, for once his hands not straying or lingering while he washed himself, and did his best to calm himself. This was Viggo's place. No one would come here to hurt him. And he would be far better off not thinking about sex while he was with Viggo, because that only led to trouble.

Orlando looked up from drying his hair with his towel when Viggo came in, and made room on the bed where he was sitting in Viggo's old sweats. After a shower and a change of clothes he almost felt normal again. He had almost managed to convince himself that the earlier incident had been an accident and that the driver simply hadn't seen him. As for the roses, he was sure he could handle those; after all, he'd dealt with crazed fans before. Although he mostly got used underwear and teddy bears by mail. He shuddered in recollection.

“Here's your tea,” Viggo said,. “And I grilled some cheese sandwiches.”

“Thanks, dad,” Orlando said, and dodged a half-hearted punch from Viggo's elbow. He gladly accepted the tray, and dived in. God, it all smelled and tasted heavenly. When was the last time he'd had grilled cheese sandwiches? Orlando tried to remember but couldn't. His mother had probably made him some before he moved out of home. Years.

“I am, actually. A dad. Henry's just started UCLA.” Viggo smiled the smile of any proud parent. Orlando didn't fail to notice that the smile made him very attractive.

Orlando's jaw stopped in mid-munch at this revelation. “Really? That's cool. You must've been young when you had him.”

“Around your age,” Viggo said and shrugged. “So yeah, quite young.”

“Does he... I mean, is he okay with your sexuality?”

“It's a fact he's lived with pretty much all his life,” Viggo said, sounding a little uncomfortable. Orlando sympathised. Teenage boys weren't always the most understanding about alternate sexualities. “It doesn't make a difference to him anymore. The teen years were a bit more difficult.”

“I couldn't really imagine having a kid. I can barely look after myself,” Orlando said, his mouth twisting into a smile at the thought. “You've known me for what, two days, and this is already the second time you're having me over and in need of help. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

“I like taking care of people,” Viggo said by way of explanation, and pushed the mug closer to Orlando. “Drink that.”

“Yes, dad,” Orlando said in a sing-song voice and this time Viggo's hand did catch him on the back of his head in a gentle slap. Orlando oomphed and spilled some of the tea into his lap, and briefly glared at Viggo who gave him an apologetic look.

“So, we talked about me,” Orlando prompted. “Why don't you tell me something about you. Or what you like to do when you're not working. That's assuming of course that you're not a workaholic.”

Viggo laughed at that. “”Well, since you asked, I'm pretty much glued to my camera,” Viggo said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Henry says it's embarrassing. Not a workaholic though. I know it's a very American thing to work till you drop but I do enjoy the free time too. Not very patriotic of me, I suppose.”

Apparently what Viggo did with his spare time was take more photographs; although his chosen subjects were animals and nature (he seemed interested in water in particular, in all its forms). Orlando ate his sandwiches and drank down his tea, listening to Viggo talking for a change. He was thoughtful, and soft-spoken, and Orlando realised his attraction was growing in spades.

Not a good idea, that. Orlando did his best not to say or do anything that might be considered seductive, because right now sex wouldn't only complicate things, it could ruin them, too. That much he had learned from past relationships and the ones that had never matured from the preliminary stages.

Viggo asked if Orlando would like a refill for his tea, and he shook his head no, but appreciated the offer. It felt weird, being taken care of like this. Elijah was a doll and a true mate, and had been Orlando's partner in crime more than once, but he had a life of his own now, living in Malibu with his boyfriend, and Orlando rarely wanted to intrude on their domestic bliss anymore. Being with Viggo was... safe, for lack of a better word. It felt comfortable, even if they'd practically slept together, and Orlando usually didn't mix those two things; being comfortable in someone's company and sexing them up.

Maybe it was because Viggo wasn't a sleaze about it, but appeared sincere in his actions, bringing him food and something to wash it down with. Maybe he should follow Viggo's example and not make it a big deal. They'd had sex; so what? It didn't have to change anything; they could still be friends.

Orlando smiled at Viggo and took a sip of his tea. Friends. He rather liked that thought.

* * *

Orlando shivered in the gentle morning breeze, closing his eyes and breathing in deep to fill his lungs with the clean, fresh air. It felt like he was alone in the world at that moment; there was no-one else, no obligations, no schedules to follow. The sun was starting to peek from behind the mountains, painting the valley in hues of gold and making Orlando squint his eyes against the bright shine. It was pure, untouched, unmarred.

It had been one hell of a six months. Once the media got wind of his budding relationship with Davide (who had turned out to be a famed photographer and a celebrity of his own right), they'd never received a moment's peace.

Not until Davide suggested that they take a little time off and fly over to Haute-Savoie, France, where the Armand family owned a vacation cabin. Which, of course, turned out to be a luxurious, house-sized dwelling, better equipped than Orlando's own home in LA. Davide showed him around nonchalantly, but was obviously pleased at Orlando's praise and appreciation, especially of the view. The house overlooked a small valley, facing east, and the terrace on the second floor was just the perfect place to welcome a new day.

Orlando had woken up early, and not wanting to disturb Davide he had rolled off the bed, grabbed a silken robe from the hanger by the bed and padded to the terrace.

It was beautiful and isolated, and all of a sudden Orlando felt ill at ease. They had arrived the previous night and Davide had acted a bit stroppy with him all evening, probably out of tiredness after the flight. It reminded him that despite them having dated for half a year already, he barely knew the man. Orlando's work kept him busy and constantly on the move, and the same applied for Davide, although the older man nowadays only worked when he felt like it; after all, it wasn't like he needed the money. The Armand family's wealth dated back to centuries preceding the French Revolution.

He was very attentive, though, and he kept Orlando's fierce headaches at bay with offering him magic in the form of small white pills, bottles of Cristal and an unending supply of drugs of your choice. When Orlando got agitated, Davide made him swallow a pill or two, and soon he felt nice and mellow. With Davide, all problems just disappeared.

There had been times, though, when the older man scared him; times when he got impatient with Orlando, and grabbed his arm, or his wrist, hard enough to bruise. Orlando found it hard to complain, though, because otherwise he was a dream come true and everyone had their faults, didn't they?

He was startled from his musings when a pair of arms wrapped around his middle from behind, and then smelled the familiar scent of his lover's aftershave.

“Didn't know you were such an early riser,” Davide rasped into his ear. “And I absolutely had no idea how magnificent you'd look here, framed by this view. Just amazing. You are so beautiful.”

Orlando smiled a little despite himself. “How long are we going to stay?” he asked. “I thought, now that we have the time off, we could see other places, too. Visit England, maybe. My mum's asked about you.”

He didn't see the other man's expression and thus missed the small tightening of Davide's mouth.

“Baby, we just got here.” Davide said and nuzzled Orlando's neck gently, tightening his hold around the slim form. “I don't bring just anyone here, you know. This is a special place for me. I wanted to share it with someone I love. And I love you, you must know that.”

Orlando sighed and squeezed the other man's hand which rested on his stomach. There was that dreaded L word again. The one word he couldn't bring himself to say. “I know. Sorry, I know I'm being a wanker. This place is beautiful.”

“So we're not leaving yet?” Davide confirmed, and kissed Orlando's neck, pleased, when the younger man nodded his affirmative. “Come on, let's go back inside. It's freezing out here.”

Davide then took him to bed, and afterwards, Orlando slept, waking up late in the afternoon. The other side of the bed was cold, indicating that his partner had got up quite a while ago. He called for Davide, thinking that the other man had disappeared to the bathroom to freshen up, but didn't get any answer. Eventually he got tired of lounging in the bed alone and left the warm comfort of the bed. Orlando dressed warmly, bearing in mind the cold floors and the draught, and left in search for the older man.

He didn't like being left to his own devices in Davide's family home; he hardly felt at home at Davide's apartment, and here, centuries of tradition seemed to frown upon him.

He kept calling out Davide's name, his voice echoing in the long corridors, and finally he found a partially open door by the hall upstairs. Cold afternoon sunlight streamed in by the windows, and Orlando had to squint after the dimness of the corridors.

“Davide?”

Carefully he pushed the door open as to avoid startling the other man, but the room was empty. Tables and chairs covered by white cloths were littered around the room, and dust covered the furnishings.

Orlando took a tour around the room, taking in the paintings depicting ancestors long dead and buried, peeking at the covered furniture – nothing more than arm chairs, and sofas - and started when the door banged open behind him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Davide yelled, and gripped Orlando's arm with steely fingers. “Sneaking around, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong!”

He pushed Orlando away and he stumbled, hitting his thigh on a sharp edge of a nearby table. Holding his thigh and trembling in near-shock he watched Davide carefully smooth the misplaced coverings back into place. He couldn't move, couldn't flee; his limbs refused to obey the orders coming from his brain. He couldn't believe that was Davide acting like that. Pushing him, hurting him.

“What are you still doing here?” he barked, his face contorted in rage. “Get the fuck out!”

Orlando stumbled away, slamming the door behind him and all but running down the stairs to the bedroom, where Davide found him some twenty minutes later, sitting frozen in the same spot.

“Baby, I'm sorry,” he said, and stroked Orlando's hand that rested on the bedding. Orlando's eyes followed the to-and-fro action, thinking how those hands had touched him lovingly so many times, and how this time, they left him completely cold. “You know I don't like people touching my belongings. Even you. I'm sorry I yelled at you.”

Orlando shrugged, still not lifting his gaze. He had had time to calm down and think about things. A yelling fight would get them nowhere, and he didn't want to aggravate the older man.

“Don't be like that. I already said I'm sorry.” An impatient edge had entered Davide's voice, and Orlando didn't object as the older man took his hand in his and pulled him to his feet. “It's dinner time, and I've prepared us a meal. Come on. We don't want you to starve, do we?”

* * *

Orlando woke up from the memory-come-dream with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. First he didn't recognise his surroundings and panicked, his breath coming out in sharp gasps. Then, as his eyes adapted to the darkness and he could see a little, the happenings of the previous day slowly came to him.

He was at Viggo's. Viggo's place meant he was safe.

Orlando let his head fall back on his pillow. Who was he kidding? He wasn't safe anywhere. Davide was out to get back to him for daring to leave him, for having the nerve to humiliate him.. He wouldn't give up just because Orlando ran crying to his friends. Oh no, quite the contrary. He probably wanted to see Orlando become a nervous, crying mess, just to show him that he was no one, he was nothing, without Davide by his side to protect him.

A new thought hit him then; what if he was endangering Viggo by staying at his place? Viggo'd asked him to come with him, true, but he didn't know Davide like Orlando did.

Orlando, on the other hand, had been hit and bruised enough to know what he was capable of, and the answer was, enough. He wasn't sure if Davide wanted him back, or if he just wanted to punish him, but he shouldn't get Viggo involved in it. He'd always tried to make sure that neither Elijah, nor Jennifer, or anyone else that truly cared about him knew the whole truth about him and Davide. The humiliation, the degrading names. The slaps, the kicks, and the well-placed pinches that really, really hurt, delivered in front of everyone, in front of cameras even, Orlando's frozen smile hiding the fact that he was screaming inside.

Viggo had made him feel safe; now it was his turn to make sure that Viggo was safe, that Davide would have no reason at all to ever pay any attention to a photographer named Viggo Mortensen.

Next morning, Viggo found him gone, with a little note left behind.

Vig,

I'm really thankful for everything you've done for me. You've been a real friend, and I'll never forget that. Thanks for giving me a place to stay when I needed it.

I really feel that I need to learn to deal with my own stuff and to take care of myself. Running from my problems isn't helping matters any and I want to break that pattern.

Thanks again, I hope someday I'll be able to be the kind of friend to you that you've been to me. Until then.

Orlando
xxx

* * *

tbc in Chapter four

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 2/8

2013-05-06T05:01:23Z

Title: Vanity Fair
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB; mentions of OB/other and VM/other
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Adult themes all around. AU, angst, mentions of substance abuse, violence, mentions of promiscuity.
Summary: Orlando Bloom is living the perfect, enviable life of a celebrated male supermodel, but looks aren't everything.
Disclaimer: This is just a dream and a lie. No profit made.
A/N: This story has finally progressed from a WIP to Finished. Beta read by a dear friend. *hugs*

Previous chapter

At 24, Orlando Bloom was a household name.

Even if you didn't care about fashion, you could probably drop a few names; Kate Moss, Gisele Bündchen, Alessandra Ambrosio, Andrej Pejic, Orli Bloom. The beautiful, the famous, the media sweethearts. Over-priced coat-hangers, according to some.

Rumour said that Orlando's story started in a dingy gay bar in London. He, it was said, unknowingly picked up a famed photographer and proceeded to give the guy life-altering cock-worship in the men's room, impressing the man enough to give Orlando his calling card after they were done, and a request to call him next Monday.

Orlando did call, and the rest was history. It took no more than a couple of photographs by a dedicated professional to capture his unusual beauty and allure, and to get him his very first contract as the new face of a jeans brand.

Of course, most of what was known of Orlando's rather unusual start in the industry was just rumours, gossip and hearsay; Orlando never answered questions regarding the beginning of his career, only saying that where he was now and the things he now did were of greater importance than some ancient stuff from the past.

It took only one ad to make Orlando famous. Not just a known name inside the industry, but a name that was googled, asked about and memorized. People no longer talked about Orli Bloom; they talked about the big O, the Face.

Orlando on all fours with an arched back, his behind sticking in the air. Orlando wearing nothing but a pair of wet dark denim jeans and a smug grin, looking over his shoulder at the camera behind him with parted lips and beckoning, half-closed eyes; framed by a cloudless sky on a deck of a yacht. Drops of sweat running down his tanned shoulders and back, his face glowing from the inside on a hot afternoon.

The wooden deck is wet and soapy, and you can just see that he's holding a sponge in his hand. Except that your eyes are on his ass, his perfectly formed buttocks under the tight denim, and you can spy the beginning of his crack where the waistband has dragged down; that is, if you wanted to interpret the small, shadowy, dewy well at the small of his back where the swell of the buttocks start.

No fancy slogans, no logos slapped across the ad; just the small tag sewn on the left side of the back pocket with the brand's name on it.

It was The Ad that everyone discussed, knew of, and had an opinion about. People protested against it, claiming it to be too risqué for young viewers, readers and passersby alike, and having arguments about objectification and the risks of young children being exposed to the attitude of in-your-face sexuality. Too daring, they said. Too sexy, too porno.

What they didn't say was, too gay. But that was what everyone thought.

When asked about the blatant homoeroticism of the advertisement, Orlando answered with a flippant, “Well, I am gay. And there are a lot of guys out there who are, too. So what about it?”

A week later he was caught on a paparazzi's film sucking face with another up-and-coming male model, his hand in the other boy's jeans, and a reputation had been set. Boys came and went, and blowjobs almost came to mean the same as handshakes; just a quick, friendly way to say 'nice to meet you'.

To stay awake, you took one pill. To fall asleep, you took another. To keep the back pains away you needed yet another, and the all too frequent migraines had to be medicated with the appropriate poison. Champagne kept the spirits high, no matter what the circumstances, and days turned into evenings spent in a pleasant buzz. Jennifer was a good chauffeur when Orlando needed one, even if she grumbled about being used and how it wasn't a part of the job description; however, she loved Orli – just like everyone else - and worried what might happen if she didn't take him home at the end of the night.

This was just week three after pouring the last bottle of Cristal down the drain. Old habits were hard to kick, especially if one was fighting several addictions at once. Orlando still took the pills when he felt he just couldn't go without, but he had cut down considerably from his wildest days.

This was also week three after kicking Davide's possessive ass to the kerb. Orlando touched his cheek and winced. Who was he trying to kid? Just because he had kicked the older man out of his life didn't mean that he was gone. Far from it.

Paying the cab driver with his spare change and shrugging off the snide and sarcastic thanks so much Orlando entered his apartment building, only stopping to punch in the code to open the door.

Opting for caution he chose the stairs, telling himself that he needed some cardio workout since he had missed the gym this morning. A sense of dread grew in his gut, the memory of what had happened that morning in his house bubbling to the surface. How he had snatched his car keys from the table and run down the stairs, all the way down to the underground car park where he had turned on the engine of his 'Vette with shaking hands and hit the accelerator, leaving black rubber marks in the concrete in his hurry to get away.

Orlando unlocked the door as quietly as he could, waiting a bit before entering. The house was quiet and dark, and he twisted the keys in his hand, ready to strike if someone attacked. He held his breath while he walked on his tiptoes, peeking inside the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen before accepting that no-one was there. The apartment was empty.

Chuckling a bit awkwardly at his seemingly baseless paranoia he switched on the light and stopped. Most of the colour drained from his face as he stared at the single white rose on the living room table. His face tightened and his breath caught in his throat, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

White rose...

Orlando looked up from the magazine he'd been browsing for the last half an hour or so while waiting for the make-up artists to arrive when someone approached. His eyebrows rose curiously at the sight of a dark-haired man in his forties standing in front of him, holding a white rose in a manicured hand. The hair that fell about his face in thick strands was well-kept and carefully cut; all in all, the man looked like a rich European gent who had just docked his summer yacht and was now prowling for sex.

The man had a confident air about him, and Orlando couldn't help noticing the designer clothing that the man wore, realising that the leather jacket alone had to cost over a thousand dollars. Orlando modelled for that particular fashion brand and yet could barely afford a pair of their jeans!

“Can I help you?” he asked, meeting a pair of green eyes.

“Yes,” the man said, and handed him the rose. “Say you'll have dinner with me tonight.”

Orlando bit his lip against a surprised laughter that threatened. “Excuse me?”

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

Normally Orlando would have dismissed the guy in a heartbeat; since his sudden rise to fame he had to beat the most insistent suitors off with a stick, but there was something different about this man. Maybe it was just his cockiness and his self-confidence in scoring a date with an up-and-coming young model, or maybe it was the high-priced clothing he wore, or maybe it was his French accent that Orlando found vaguely arousing, but he felt sorely tempted to say yes, and regretted the fact that he had to turn the man down.

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but...”

“Oh, how rude of me not to introduce myself,” the man interrupted, and extended his hand. “Davide Armand, at your service.”

Orlando crossed the floor in a few long strides and flung the rose and the vase onto the floor, crushing the delicate flower under the sole of his shoe until it was pulp, not caring that the expensive carpet got soiled in the process, not realising he was hyperventilating until the world started to spin around him a little too fast and dark spots started to form before his eyes.

Orlando drew in a shuddering breath and bit his lips, trying to get himself under control again. He used both his palms to wipe at his eyes, trying to clear his mind and think straight. Think, think, think. Think.

Davide still had a key. Which meant the lock had to be changed. He would have to call a locksmith in the morning.

Orlando fastened the security chain with trembling fingers, and stared at the door for a full minute before feeling secure enough to go to the kitchen. He swung the fridge door open and stared at the contents, thinking distantly that he should do some grocery shopping, soon. A six-pack of light beer, a dried up cheese and two cartons of low-fat yoghurt stared at him from the shelves, and Orlando's stomach churned. He grabbed a bottle of water and a small package of pills stacked behind the cheese, and slammed the door shut.

He probably wouldn't be able to sleep, but this way he could get some rest anyway.

Washing down a couple of pills with the water he lay down, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. He couldn't help Davide's parting words replaying in his mind over and over again.

“This is not over, Orlando. You and I are not done yet.”

* * *

Orlando woke somewhere around noon from his dreamless sleep to the sound of a trilling noise coming from nearby, and it took a while to register that one, he had managed to fall asleep at some point and two, that annoying noise was his cell phone going off in his jeans pocket. By the time he'd managed to drag himself out of bed, the cell phone had quietened. Yawning widely, Orlando checked his voice mail, certain it was either Jennifer checking up on him or Elijah eagerly sharing the gossip of who had been seen with whom the previous night at Château Marmont.

His winged brows rose in surprise and his heart did a little jump in his chest when he recognised Viggo's voice. A little smile flitted across his face as he listened to the man rambling about this and that before asking if Orlando would have the time to meet over a cup of coffee. Quickly texting his positive answer to Viggo's number he headed to the shower and washed off the remnants of sleep, lingering a few sweet moments between his legs but contending himself with a couple of lazy tugs before stepping out from under the spray.

A call to the locksmith ensured that he'd have his locks changed not later than the same afternoon, and after getting a cab down town, making a mental note to get a new car as soon as possible, Orlando was on his way. Once he'd grown used to the mad traffic jams and right-hand side traffic he had fallen in love with driving and the freedom it brought. He drummed his knee with his fingers impatiently, listening to the driver's chatter with half an ear while wondering why Viggo had called.

It was probably business related. Or maybe he'd forgotten something at Viggo's place in his hurry to leave for home. Or perhaps Viggo had regrets about not coming onto him the night before when he'd had the chance and decided to remedy that.

Orlando snorted and shook his head. While the chemistry was there, he hadn't gotten the impression that Viggo would only be after a piece of ass, and he didn't want to flatter himself by thinking that he was irresistible enough to make people behave so severely out of character. Sure, guys did some pretty stupid things just to get his attention, but Viggo had already made clear that he was not only a professional but also possessed plenty old-fashioned decency.

Orlando raised his hand in greeting after spotting Viggo sitting at a table by the windows, and headed to the order counter to get himself a drink. The barista offered him a flirtatious smile and Orlando responded with a smile of his own, picking up his glass and making his way to Viggo through the labyrinth formed by the tables.

Viggo had opted for a maté while Orlando chose a soy chai latte. He'd once again donned his sunglasses and tied his hair in a messy bun, knowing that dressing down made him harder to recognise; a pair of baggy jeans and a scarf tied around his neck completed his attire. So far he'd only received a few stares from the other patrons, and he suspected they were just resting their eyes on a pretty boy and didn't realise that he was actually someone famous.

Viggo, on the other hand, hadn't disguised himself at all, and it only made sense; after all, he worked exclusively on the other side of the camera, and few people knew what he looked like even if they worked in the same industry. To Orlando, he looked absolutely edible in his khakis and dark blue t-shirt, and to cover his initial reaction and sudden shyness he greeted the man warmly and immediately fell into a torrent of babble, apologising that he had missed Viggo's call and adding that it was just so nice to finally have a day off after a string of go and sees and photo shoots.

Viggo was a bit on the quiet side, letting Orlando do most of the talking and asking a question here and there, and the younger man found it surprisingly refreshing. For the longest time he had been stuck in the role of an adoring boyfriend who never had anything of importance to say, and having someone like Viggo, who was not only talented as fuck but also intelligent and well-read, listening to him made him feel good.

“So, why did you call me?” he finally asked, after finishing a funny little anecdote about that one time he and Elijah had gotten lost in the middle of nowhere and hitch-hiked their way back to the city; he still wasn't sure if Elijah had had to blow the guy to get them a ride. “Not that I mind, though. And where did you get my number?”

“Well, I couldn't think of anyone else who'd go out for a coffee with me,” Viggo said, and Orlando broke into a laugh, covering his mouth with a napkin as he received several curious glances from the nearby tables. “Hey, don't laugh at me. I'm new in a big city and in need of friends. As for the number, we do share a few acquaintances.”

“Yeah, right, I'm sure you couldn't find yourself someone to go out with,” Orlando said, fighting a wide grin. Hell, when Viggo looked at him like that with his sky-blue eyes it was easy to imagine him as a carefree country boy, raising horses and cattle somewhere in the wilderness.

“Well, maybe I didn't want to ask just anybody,” Viggo said, and didn't elaborate. He met Orlando's eyes again and a small frown appeared between his brows. “Did you get home okay last night?”

Orlando's eyes dropped to his hands which were now busy shredding his napkin. “I got home fine, thanks.” He hesitated before continuing. “Sorry if I'm acting weird or something. I'm just... going through a difficult break-up with someone who doesn't want to understand that it's over. I've never done this, you know? Had a long relationship that actually required an ending of some sort,” he elaborated. “More than just, 'thanks for the shag, see ya'.”

“Were you together long?” Viggo asked. He was twiddling with the bombilla and not looking at Orlando, which made answering the question much easier.

“About a year, on and off.” Orlando sighed and pushed his glass away. “God, what a waste of time! I kind of knew from the beginning that it wasn't going anywhere, but I just didn't know how to end things. I must sound like a wuss for admitting that.”

He glanced up at Viggo, and this time the man's blue eyes were watching him back. Orlando had to swallow against the abrupt pressure in his throat at the look in Viggo's eyes.

“You don't. You're not the only one who's clung onto a dead relationship much longer than they should have,” Viggo said.

“You too?” Orlando asked, surprised. To him, Viggo seemed like the kind of guy who knew what he wanted and wouldn't waste time on anything that wasn't it. He didn't seem that weak. Orlando's lip was drawn between his teeth as he contemplated this, thinking that maybe Viggo would understand all about jealous ex-boyfriends prone to violent outbursts.

“Me, too,” Viggo said, this time more seriously. “A marriage I probably shouldn't have gotten into in the first place and many, many more relationships after that.” His gaze shifted from Orlando's eyes to his temple in inquiry. “I don't want to be nosey, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but does your ex have anything to do with you getting hurt?”

Orlando's face shut down and he shook his head firmly. “Told you, it was a car crash. My attention wasn't on the road and shit happened. I can show you the wreck if you don't believe me.”

“Of course I believe you. I shouldn't even have asked that.”

“It's fine. I just don't want to talk about him.”

“Fair enough,” Viggo conceded. “So, you're having a day off for a change?”

Orlando was grateful that Viggo dropped the subject. “Yeah, feels strange. I almost didn't know what to do this morning, I'm so used to doing everything double-speed and still ending up missing breakfast.” He scrunched up his nose. “Although I missed the gym, again. If I'm not careful I'll end up fat, and no-one'll ever hire me again.”

“I doubt that,” Viggo said. “Don't take this the wrong way, but a couple of pounds on you wouldn't ruin your appearance, quite the opposite.”

Orlando shrugged. “I don't know. People seem to like me like this, so why change a winning concept. Although you're not the first person to say that. My friend Lij's always on my case for being too thin.” He rolled his eyes.

“Lij? Is he the same person as this Elijah you mentioned earlier?”

“Yeah, he's one of my few true friends,” Orlando said. “It's quite sad. I literally know hundreds of people, and he's one of the very few people I can really count on.”

Viggo nodded. “I haven't lived in L.A. that long, but that pretty much sums up my experience. It's sometimes hard to tell who your real friends are.”

Orlando nodded too, his eyes fixed on Viggo's now empty gourd and then met his eyes again. Damn but his eyes were blue. Not intense aquamarine but the shade of faded denim. Orlando mentally shook himself when he realised that he was checking Viggo out. He was starting to feel a bit jittery, and suddenly sitting here among all these people didn't seem like a very good idea.

Many people were watching them – even if it was L.A., drop dead gorgeous men were still a sight to behold – and Orlando hated being stared at. He fidgeted with his napkin, and fought the urge to bolt. It wasn't exactly the beginning of a panic attack – and boy, did he have experience of those – but it wasn't far off, either. It was as if there wasn't enough oxygen, and it was becoming hard to breathe. Suddenly all he wanted was to get out of there.

“You want to do something? Go somewhere? Catch a movie or something like that?”

Viggo shook his head. “Sadly, I don't have a day off today, just this morning.”

Orlando told himself to calm down. “Come on, let's go somewhere. I'm done sitting here.”

“I'd love to, but I've already made an appointment with someone,” Viggo said. “Some other time --”

“Fine, it's fine,” Orlando interrupted quickly, pushing his chair back.

“No, really, I --”

“Don't worry about it,” Orlando said loudly, and got up. His heart had started to race, and he needed to get out. “I'm kind of in a hurry anyway, need to get a new car, yeah? Nothing like my old 'Vette, but I'm sure I'll find something nice.”

“Orlando...”

“Thanks for calling, we should definitely do this again,” he said faux-cheerily and gathered his bag, not really paying attention to what he was doing, now on full autopilot. “See you around, man, take care.”

He walked briskly out of the coffee shop, hailed a cab on the street corner and rushed in, asking the driver to take him to the place in Inglewood where he'd purchased his last car. The man gave him an odd look but did as he was asked to, but kept checking on him via the rear view mirror every twenty seconds or so. Orlando stared out of the window and chewed on his lower lip, willing his heartbeat to slow down and wondering what the fuck was wrong with him. He was harder than this, damn it. He'd been through so much worse.

Orlando bit his lips hard enough to taste a little blood, wishing for a little something to calm him down. For all his faults, Davide had been something of a stabilising factor in his life; he'd always known what to do when Orlando got nervous. He had the best shit, the best money could buy, and he was always generous with Orlando. If this was what being sober was all about, Orlando would welcome all addictions there ever was.

At the sports car dealer's Orlando noticed the sales person looking at him oddly and flashed a charming smile, the one with teeth and a head tilt. The man immediately relaxed and responded to his smile, his worries of Orlando being some kind of an unpredictable junkie put at rest for the time being. The young man fought the suffocating feelings of panic and pointed at the Maserati Spyder GT in front of him.

“That one.” He stared at the elegant sports car and repeated, “I want that one.”

* * *

Balancing the grocery bag on one arm, Orlando reached for the keys in his jeans pocket, and pushed the button to open the doors. Grabbing the door handle with two fingers and swinging it open he then promptly dropped down the bag of groceries on the passenger seat and pushed the door closed.

And paused.

There was a white rose on the fender. Not the least bit wilted, which, in this heat, implied that it'd been left there mere minutes ago.

Orlando's head whipped up and his eyes scanned his surroundings, searching for Davide or, hell, anyone who could be playing a practical joke on him. He saw nothing out of the ordinary; people pushing overloaded carts, kids shuttling to and fro on their roller skates, women unloading their groceries in their SUVs and bitching at their misbehaving children.

He spotted a group of teenage girls standing by one of the cars nearby, chatting and giggling. “Hey!”

The girls looked at him when he approached, wary and somewhat curious.

“Hey, girls, did you see anyone putting something in this car? That's my car over there, did you see anyone?”

The girls glanced at one another and then one of them, apparently a leader of sorts, spoke. She blew a bubble with her gum and popped it lazily, coming up with “Um, no.” Her tone implied there was a duh in there somewhere; who did this guy think they were, some kind of security people?

“Not like we were watching your stupid car,” another girl said, barely looking up from her iPhone, and the others snickered. Orlando's face heated and he suppressed the urge to bang their stupid bimbo heads together.

“You must have seen something, you've been standing right there!” he snapped, raking his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. Fuck. He was losing it. Calm. Down. “You know, never mind, thanks for nothing.”

“Freak,” the first girl muttered while he walked away, and the others giggled in agreement. Too bad, he was a nice looking guy, in the thin not-quite-a-druggie kind of way.

Orlando whipped out his cell and speed-dialled Jennifer out of habit, but clicked the phone shut before it could ring. No. There was no need to bother Jennifer. He'd deal with this himself. Davide had another thing coming if he thought he could scare him by something as lame as leaving white roses where he knew Orlando would find them. So fucking lame.

Orlando picked up the flower and brought it to his nose, breathing in the fresh scent. Then he dropped it on the ground and got inside his car, not sparing the rose another look when he backed from the spot and then sped off.

It was just a rose, after all. What worried him more was that Davide had been that close to him, and he'd known nothing.

* * *

Orlando groaned as he opened his eyes, closing them again immediately and shifting as to avoid the glaring sunlight, only to find that his limbs were entangled with someone else's.

The body next to him murmured but didn't wake up, and Orlando didn't dare move for another moment until he was sure the other was still asleep. The pounding between his ears started as soon as he moved, and he stumbled toward the bathroom to take a piss and find something to kill the headache with. The floor was cluttered with empty bottles and small, empty, inconspicuous plastic bags whose previous contents Orlando didn't care to think about too closely in the light of the day.

He leaned on the wall in front of him with his right hand as he relieved himself, keeping his eyes closed. Someone pounded on the door, demanding entrance, and before Orlando could form a reply a slender body entered the room, dashing to the bathtub and emptying the contents of the stomach in it. Orlando grimaced and looked away in disgust, happy that he had decided against having the party at his own place. At least here he didn't have to clean up the mess.

“Okay, out,” he said to the sickly-looking boy, grabbing him by his thin bicep and pushing him toward the door, not caring in the slightest that he was stark naked. “And take your shit with you.”

“Fuck you,” the boy said, spitting the words through thinned lips as Orlando hurtled him into the corridor and threw some clothes out after him. “You're even a bigger asshole than that boyfriend of yours.”

“Thanks,” Orlando said sarcastically and slammed the door closed to his scowling face. Fuck it. Davide. What the hell happened last night?

He remembered Davide appearing at his doorstep with an apologetic look and a case of Cristal. After that, Orlando didn't remember much. He remembered Davide opening the door and admitting the young man who'd just left, along with a couple of others; he remembered a lot of yelling and him locking himself in the bathroom. Davide had managed to cajole him out of his hiding place with promises of blow and sex.

But where the fuck was he?

Orlando limped back to the bathroom, heading to the sink to rinse his hands and raised his eyes to look in the mirror. He looked awful; his nose looked (and felt!) raw, his eyes were bloodshot and his skin looked like he hadn't seen the sun in weeks. Suddenly hating the sight of his own face, Orlando punched the mirror angrily with his fist, howling in pain as the mirror cracked under his knuckles and the small shards of glass scraped his skin.

“Bloody fucking shit!” he yelled, cradling his hand against his chest and stepped back from the sink, stepping on a slippery piece of plastic and falling, falling.

The gossip rags got nice headlines from his visit to the hospital, and Orlando's publicist earned his pay by spinning stories of a very insistent cold that poor Orlando had treated with the wrong kind of medicine (prescribed by a doctor of course), and hurting himself in his drowsy state (anyone could trip on a pile of clothes, right?). Poor, poor Orlando had to cancel his gigs for the next four weeks while his flu was properly treated, and no, please don't send any wish-you-well bottles of champagne, thank you.

Davide tried to call. He tried to come for a visit. He demanded Jennifer to let him in so that he could talk to Orlando, but to no avail. Eventually, he stopped trying to contact Orlando directly; instead, he received a white rose each day. There were never any notes or cards attached to the roses, but Orlando knew who they were from. One day he appeared in person, carrying a white rose and an apology written all over his handsome face. He did the one thing he'd never done before; he begged Orlando to come back and to give him another chance, and Orlando couldn't turn him down.

* * *

Standing outside the door to Davide's apartment, Orlando shivered. He was crazy to come here. A certifiable loony, most definitely. In fact, he should have his head examined right this very minute just to check if he indeed had any brains in his pretty head. He should have stayed at home, where he had dropped off his groceries, stayed at home instead driving to Davide's like a bat out of hell.

This place held no happy memories for him; if anything, it held half-remembered, half-forgotten little fragments he wasn't even sure if he'd experienced or if they were something his deluded mind had conjured up in his drug-induced hazes. If the things he remembered had indeed happened in anywhere else than in the little grey cells of his brain.

Orlando's face tightened just as his fist pummelled into the oak door. That fucking shit. It seemed that even though they were over and done with, he still couldn't forget. He could leave the man, but he couldn't leave their past behind.

“What the fuck?” A young man opened the door, wearing a bathrobe half-tied at the waist and an annoyed expression. Orlando sneered as he recognised the type; young, thin, dark-eyed and beautiful. Some things never changed. “Who the fuck are you?”

“The previous bed-warmer,” Orlando groused, and pushed inside past the pretty boy. “So, where is he?” He frowned as the boy's lips clipped shut almost audibly and added some growl into his voice. “Spare me the bother of searching this whole motherfucking house and just tell me where he is!”

“He left to get some breakfast,” the boy whined and stepped back when Orlando took a step closer. It gave him not a small amount of satisfaction to come off as threatening. “I swear he's not here!”

“Well, you can tell him when he comes back that Orlando was here and that he wasn't impressed, at all.” He eyed the boy, took in the blank, vapid expression and raised an eyebrow. “Or-lan-do, okay? Think you can remember that? Oh, yeah, and tell him that if he pulls that lame shit again I'm gonna ring the coppers and have him arrested for burglary and trespassing and anything else I can think of.”

The boy nodded hesitantly, looking like he hadn't completely understood what he'd just been told, and Orlando had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Where did all these dumb people come from, seriously? It seemed these days that L.A. was just full of people who didn't have two brain cells to rub together.

“Okay, good,” he said, and couldn't resist adding, “hey, by the way, he keeps the best stuff in the freezer, in an empty Ben and Jerry's carton. His private stash. You might want to check that out.”

Judging from the way the boy's eyes widened in a delighted fashion, Orlando guessed that Davide had already shared some of his junk with this boy. It would serve him just right to come home and find his current fucktoy high and flying from his expensive blow. He smiled to himself and added, “Just be safe, that shite's pure as fuck.”

The boy nodded again just as he pulled his robe closed with his other hand. Orlando idly noted that the young man was indeed attractive, and in the good old days he might have tried to engage him in a quickie, but appearance no longer appealed to him like it used to. Not the appearance of barely-of-age pretty boys, at least. Orlando nodded curtly and left, hearing the door slamming shut behind him and grinning to himself. It was a good thing to know that he didn't appear a weak, cowering victim, at least not to everyone.

Crossing the street to get to where he had parked he suddenly heard the screeching of tyres and looked up with widened eyes. A black SUV, eerily similar to the vehicle Davide had purchased just a month or so earlier, seemingly appeared out of thin air and materialized just some dozen feet to his left, speeding toward him with a mighty roar of its engine. Orlando froze in mid-step, his brain refusing for one split second to believe that the driver didn't intend to stop.

The car swerved toward him and Orlando got a glimpse of the driver; it was a man wearing dark sunglasses and a knitted cap pulled low, and then someone grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the pavement, causing the car to miss him by a hair's breadth. Then it was gone, disappearing behind a corner with another screech from the tyres and never slowing down, and Orlando was left shaking and staring after it, his heart hammering madly in his chest and his breath coming out in short puffs of air.

“Are you okay?” the man asked, his hand still clenched around Orlando's bicep, and he nodded dazedly. His knees felt wobbly and he felt like sitting down and curling up, and then his stomach turned over.

“'cuse me,” he mumbled and turned away, just in time to avoid emptying his stomach all over the man's khakis. He felt the guy let go of him and step back while he leant on his knees, sputtered out bile, squeezed his eyes closed and willed the world to return to normal.

“Hey, are you really okay?” the guy still tried, and Orlando shook his head, pinching his lips together. Cold sweat was running down his spine underneath his sweater and beading on his upper lip, and Orlando prayed that his stomach would stop churning long enough so that he could speak.

“Mmh, fine,” he mumbled, “thanks.”

He didn't look up when the man took his leave after clapping his shoulder comfortingly. He inhaled through his nose, forcing himself to exhale slowly. Adrenaline was running through his system a hundred miles a minute, and somewhere in the back of his mind Orlando remembered that this, this was the exact feeling he'd been after many a time, using whatever drugs he had to just to get there.

Right now he wanted nothing more to curl up and puke, in that order, but finally the feeling passed and he was able to straighten himself. He stumbled over his feet getting to his car, and unlocked the door with shaking hands.

Orlando realised he hadn't even taken a look at his saviour, but it didn't really matter. He sat in his car for the longest time until he'd stopped shaking long enough to turn on the engine.

* * *

tbc in Chapter three

Fic: Vanity Fair (VM/OB) 1/8

2013-04-29T05:01:19Z

laeglass @ 2013-01-14T20:29:00

2013-01-14T18:29:02Z

What's up with www.volaslash.com ?? :/

Book list, and other things...

2013-01-13T16:34:02Z

The BBC thinks you will have read 6 of the books on this list. Copy and paste your bolded books read, italicized books not completed, and then sum up with a head count, so to speak.

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien

3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte

4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling

5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee

6 The Bible - only the New Testament cover to cover.

7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte

8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell

9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman

10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens

11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott

12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy

13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller

14 Complete Works of Shakespeare

15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier

16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien

17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulk

18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger

19 The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger

20 Middlemarch - George Eliot

21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell

22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald

23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens

24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy

25 The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams

26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh

27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck

29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll

30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame

31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy

32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens

33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis

34 Emma - Jane Austen

35 Persuasion - Jane Austen

36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe

37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini

38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres

39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden

40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne

41 Animal Farm - George Orwell

42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown

43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving This book was damned amazing.

45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins

46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery

47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy

48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood

49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding

50 Atonement - Ian McEwan

51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel

52 Dune - Frank Herbert

53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons

54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen

55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth.

56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon

57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens

58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley

59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon

60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck

62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov

63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt

64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold

65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas

66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac

67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy

68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding

69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie

70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville

71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens

72 Dracula - Bram Stoker

73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett

74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson

75 Ulysses - James Joyce

76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome

78 Germinal - Emile Zola

79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray

80 Possession - AS Byatt.

81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens

82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell

83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker

84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro

85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert

86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry

87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White

88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom

89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton

91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad

92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery

93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks

94 Watership Down - Richard Adams

95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole

96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute

97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas

98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare

99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl

100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

My count is 19, unless I messed it up. :P Not too great, but at least I have a reading list here ready!

I just finished reading The Wind Through the Keyhole, a Dark Tower novel by Stephen King (Christmas gift from husband). The reason why I only read it now was that I had two exams this Thursday and I had to actually exercise some willpower and give all my attention to the exam books.

I also just finished reading the viggorli_xmas fics and boy were they wonderful! I was a moron and missed the sign-ups, and so I missed the whole fic exchange for the first time since 2005, when I first participated in vo_xmas. Anyway, they were awesome reads, and I got back to my writing mood. (I still have this long-ass fic that I'm tweaking and I don't even know how to get started with sending this to someone for beta! LOL)

Hope everyone's doing well, and that 2013 is treating you nicely so far.

Last but not least, happy birthday Orlando!

Verrry interested...

2012-09-18T10:52:33Z

..in seeing this movie (although I'm not sure if I *got* the book. LOL)

I missed A Dangerous Method while it was in theaters, did anyone go and see it? How did you like it? I may have to buy the dvd because damn it, Viggo and Keira and Michael Fassbender make for an interesting trio. :)

The Hobbit

2012-09-16T15:02:35Z

Anyone else looking forward to the movie?

Back with a working connection!

2012-08-28T15:02:22Z

Hey guys! I'm back (with a cold and a funny voice :P)

Yup, caught the cold from hell somehow, and spent the WE sick as a dog, and couldn't go to work yesterday or today, either. I'm def going in tomorrow even if I have to resort to sign language. :P

I refuse to get sucked into the Sherlock fandom (hahaha) but if anybody wants to rec some good fanfic I wouldn't mind terribly... *g*

Speaking of fandom, I'm finally this close to finishing a V/O fic that's been on the works since 2008 (roughly 42K words) - yeah, I know, some sort of record for me actually. LOL I think I need some help from a Spanish speaking person before I can post it to a beta, though, since I don't really speak any Spanish, and I don't trust Google translate that much. So if anyone's interested in helping a girl out, please e-mail me at laeglass[at]yahoo.co.uk and I'll e-mail the lines to you (it's just a couple, I promise!). :) Not sure if anyone's left here to read the story but I'll post it anyway. *g*

One of the reasons why I've been MIA this summer is because we haven't had a proper 'net connection until now, but also now that I'm a homeowner (isn't it amazing) a lot of my time is spent cleaning and maintaining the house. Plus we've needed to do so much stuff outside I haven't had too much spare time on my hands. It's been exciting, but exhausting, too. We're having a little housewarming do the upcoming weekend, so I guess I'll just spend the rest of the week cleaning and baking. Fun. *g*

Hope everyone's having a great week!

Fic: A Day In the Life (V/O, 1/1)

2012-05-07T15:05:42Z

Title: A Day In The Life
Author: laeglass
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, not true.
A/N: Beta by silvan_lady *hugs* No plot. *g*

~*~ *~

“Look, Viggo!”

He looked up right on time to see Orlando, with his boxer shorts pushed down to his thighs, swinging his tackle around, and choked on his mouthful of maté at the sight. He coughed up the liquid that insisted on going down his windpipe, and then asked the obvious, “What are you doing?”

“It's a helicopter,” Orlando said; drawled really. “I'm on the pull. Picking you up, as it were.”

Viggo suppressed the urge to cackle. “Babe, put the thing away before you put someone's eye out.”

Orlando huffed and turned on his heel. Viggo watched his bare butt leave with avid interest.

Damn that Elf boy.

* * *

A hot hardness against his arm, grinding ever so slightly. Topped with a hint of a sulk, or a pout, and a pair of puppy dog eyes.

“Babe, I've told you before, poking with your dick is not foreplay,” Viggo said, and turned the page.

“But when it's up, it's up,” Orlando said, and yes, it was a definite sulk.

“I can tell it's up,” Viggo said. “You're poking a hole in my shirt.”

“It's not going to suck itself.”

“It'll have to learn to, if you keep this up.”

Huffing and puffing, the Elf boy stomped away. Viggo hid a grin.

* * *

He looked up again when something, no, someone waltzed across his field of vision.

Orlando.

Naked.

“Do you know what subtle means?” Viggo called out.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Orlando said airily.

“I would ask 'what's up' but the answer is still rather obvious,” Viggo said.

“That's because someone is being obtuse,” Orlando said.

“I wonder who,” Viggo said, and watched as Orlando stomped out of the room. And adjusted himself.

* * *

“I know what you're doing.”

Orlando ceased his moaning and panting long enough to answer, his voice floating down from the bedroom to where Viggo was sitting. “And what might that be?”

“You're trying to get me to come up there.” And that damned Elf was getting way too good at pushing his buttons.

“Why would I want that?”

Pause. “Babe, you don't do clueless too well.”

“I'm doing my yoga exercises, thank you very much.”

“You know what that cat yoga pose is for,” Viggo said, now from the doorway, watching Orlando's bare backside flex from a very good vantage point.

“It's for my back and my spine.” Defensive. And that damned pout was still there; he could tell just from Orlando's tone of voice. Viggo was quite determined to kiss it away.

“I believe on this occasion it's actually for my dick.”

Tackle, and squeal, and “Oi, watch the cock!”

“I'm done watching,” Viggo said, and held the wriggling boy firmly in place while he was busy ridding Viggo of his sweat pants. “And I'm done getting ground on, and I'm done listening, so why don't we just get to the --”

“Fucking?” Orlando finished hopefully, looking up at him, all flushed and naked, spread out on the bedroom carpet, with his hard cock pointing straight up. Viggo watched a bead of moisture trickling down his shaft, and dove in to catch it with his tongue, making Orlando whimper under his breath.

“That's a yes, Elf boy,” he confirmed when he came up, and then finally kissed the all day long pout away.

finis

Fic: Writing Through (V/O, 2/2)

2012-05-03T16:01:15Z

Title: Writing Through (2/2)
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: Nc-17
Warnings: mentions of past abuse (non-graphic)
Disclaimer: Not true, not mine. All made up.
Summary: Sometimes a second chance is all you need.
A/N: Beta by rhodynne *hugs*. Written for viggorli_xmas.

Part One

Orlando found out something about himself on the flight over. He was really good at pep talk when it came to other people, but when it came to himself he excelled at raising doubts and convincing himself that he was making a big, fat mistake. He'd done that even when he'd broken up with Eric, even though he had known it was the best thing to do, and that staying together would drive him slowly crazy.

By the time that the plane landed, he was half-convinced that Viggo would take one look at his stupidly hopeful face and slam the door shut. No, Viggo would first give a scornful laugh before slamming the door closed to his face.

“Shut up, brain, you're not doing me any favours here,” he muttered, and earned himself a strange look from the woman before him in the queue out of the plane.

Maria had given him the address (“not that I've been there myself, but I just happen to have it – we sometimes send postcards and such”) to Viggo's place, and Orlando gave the address to the taxi driver after climbing in. The man gave him a puzzled look, and then asked if Orlando knew that this was quite a drive away, and not just around the corner. Orlando assured that he did (not that he did, actually, but it didn't matter that much, anyway) and then made himself comfortable in the back-seat.

It was snowing steadily, and Orlando imagined Viggo shovelling snow on his yard, his breath escaping him in puffs and clouds of vapour, his nose reddened by the frost. He'd never been to Idaho, but the snow banks were much higher than he'd ever seen before, and he wondered how and why Viggo had ever ended up owning property in this particular state. He remembered Viggo telling him that he was born in New York, and had lived a part of his childhood abroad. Or maybe Viggo hadn't told him these things, maybe he'd read up about them on the internet. He wondered if Viggo would think him a freak if he were ever to confess the internet stalking. Maybe he would do so after finding out if Viggo had went snooping, too.

He dozed off sometime during the drive, and roused only when the taxi driver mentioned that they were roughly a quarter hour away from their destination.

All the sleepiness left him as quickly as though someone had slapped him, hard. Orlando ran his hands through his hair, and wished that he had taken more time to plan this. There would have been plenty of time to do this after Christmas, after his promotion tour, after Viggo's kid had been over. Plenty of time for Orlando to decide whether this was plain crazy or something that he really needed to do. Perhaps it was both.

He groomed himself as well as he could, considering that he was all bundled up in a scarf and a parka, and then thought about digging into his travelling bag to locate his contact lenses. He was suddenly quite certain that Viggo wouldn't find him attractive. Hell, the man probably was straight.

And then it was too late for second thoughts, because the taxi took a turn left to a smaller, winding road, and all too soon pulled up on Viggo's yard. There was a barn of some sort on the far end (Orlando wasn't a country boy by all means, and he couldn't tell whether it was actually a barn or some sort of shed) of the property, and the main house was to the right. The house looked inviting, if not exactly impressive, and Orlando felt his nerves all the way down to his stomach.

The taxi driver cited a fare that Orlando normally would have found ludicrous, but this time he didn't bat an eye. His mind chased itself like a dog enraptured with its tail. What if Viggo wasn't home at all? What if he had company? What if Viggo would invite him in out of politeness, hoping that Orlando would take the hint and leave the same way that he'd come?

Orlando stepped out of the taxi and thanked the driver, and then watched him drive away. It was safer to look that way, instead of the house. Frost nipped at his cheekbones and nose, and Orlando realised that he would have to go in sooner or later. No, scratch that, he would have to ring the doorbell sooner or later, and hope that he would be admitted in.

Except that there was no doorbell. Orlando's eyebrows climbed at this oddity, but then reminded himself that knocking had served people for hundreds of years before the advent of doorbells, and so he knocked, and waited.

He transferred his weight to his other foot when it became clear that no-one was rushing to the door, not exactly impatient, but anxious to get this first eye-to-eye over and done with.

He knocked again, and waited. Still nothing. Releasing an anxious breath, he knocked again, simultaneously trying the doorknob, and was again surprised when the door opened. Mentally he berated Viggo for not keeping the doors locked so that anyone could just waltz right in, but then again this wasn't exactly an urban neighbourhood by anyone's reckoning.

“Hello,” he called out, and found himself in the foyer. “Viggo? Anyone home?”

His glasses misted over as soon as he was in, and Orlando took them off, blowing gently on the chilled glass until the lenses cleared again, and then put them back on. He didn't want to miss the first look into Viggo's house for the world.

Warmth invited him further in, and he soon found himself in what had to be Viggo's living room. There was a fire going, which meant that Viggo couldn't have left the premises entirely (and Orlando reminded himself that there had been no tyre tracks on the snow when they arrived – then again in this snowfall that didn't mean much). Orlando dropped down his travelling bag, and took a look around. There were book shelves along all of the walls except one. This one had a large window facing the back of the property, as well as a couch and some arm chairs. Orlando guessed that Viggo liked to read in natural light.

He thought about calling Viggo's cell phone, just in case he was upstairs, asleep, when the door opened and closed behind him. Suddenly his stomach was all nerves again, and Orlando turned, slowly, bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation. His mind was suddenly bombarded with all the stories he'd heard about home-owners shooting uninvited guests they'd thought to be burglars. Surely Viggo didn't own any guns. He wished.

Viggo came in, shrugging snow off of himself, and then ridding himself of his snow boots. Orlando watched him anxiously from the living room doorway, loathe to draw attention to himself, but not seeing any alternative.

“Hi,” he said softly, and Viggo's head whipped up in surprise.

Their eyes met, and again Orlando's belly was filled with liquid warmth, sending tendrils of heat in every direction. Viggo looked flabbergasted, to say the least, and slightly alarmed, but happy, too – or so Orlando hoped. It was too dark to say for certain.

“I thought I heard a car,” Viggo said, and his drawly voice sent shivers up and down Orlando's spine. Surely Viggo hadn't sounded this, this sexy on the phone or in the publishing house 'do, because if he had,Orlando would have jumped him on the spot.

“Surprise,” Orlando said lamely, his hands now balled into loose fists. Viggo didn't look like he was going to fly into violent rage, but he knew from experience that some people hated to be surprised in this way. Last time he'd surprised someone he'd caught his erstwhile boyfriend red-handed, and that had quickly escalated into a nasty, violent fight and a break-up.

Not that he and Viggo were a couple, or even an item, and he wished that Viggo would say something and not just look at him as though unable to believe that he really was here, standing in Viggo's living room doorway, still all bundled up in his winter gear.

“I tried to call earlier, and was a bit worried when you didn't answer,” Viggo said. “You were probably on your way by then.”

“Yeah. I thought, if we're going to keep talking, it'll be a lot cheaper for you if I just fly over,” Orlando joked feebly, still nervous, still anxious, his fingernails still punching crescent shapes into his palms.

“I'm really glad,” Viggo said, and crossed the foyer, and then he was suddenly close enough that Orlando could make out the snowflakes that were melting on his lashes. Viggo wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close, and Orlando's breath left him in a rush. He burrowed his nose into Viggo's neck and inhaled deeply, imprinting the scent into his memory so that he would have that with him when he left and Viggo stayed.

“I'm glad to see you too,” he said, his voice muffled. Viggo probably couldn't feel his heartbeat through their jackets, but it had to be a close thing. If Viggo were to nuzzle his neck the way Orlando was nuzzling his, he would feel the madly fluttering pulse and know that Orlando's knees were holding by dint of will.

“Let's get you undressed, I'll see if I can find us something to eat,” Viggo said, and Orlando's mind latched into the word undressed like it was gospel and he was a devout believer.

“Yeah,” he said, and allowed Viggo to get him out of the parka. Viggo took his outerwear to the foyer, and Orlando took off his shoes, too, seeing that Viggo was going around in just socks. Viggo disappeared into the kitchen, and Orlando was left standing nervously in the hallway.

Viggo seemed to be taking this well. Orlando envied his composure, because he felt shaky and shivery all over. At least Viggo hadn't told him to get out, and that was something. Orlando allowed himself the hope that unfurled in his chest.

“I'm sorry I came over uninvited,” he said hurriedly when Viggo came back with a steaming mug and ushered him into the living room. Orlando gratefully sank into the couch. “I should have asked first. Or better yet I should have waited for you to ask me.”

“Glad you didn't, you'd be waiting for a long time,” Viggo said, and handed him the mug.

“Oh,” Orlando said, his face falling, and his gut clenching.

“No, not like that,” Viggo said quickly. “Because I'm not good with --- I don't take social cues very well. And because I wouldn't have thought you were interested. Not because I didn't want you here, Orlando. I do. I'm glad you're here. So don't apologize.”

“Oh,” Orlando said again, and took a mouthful of the beverage; it was hot chocolate, and his taste buds sizzled at the sugary taste. “Okay.”

Viggo watched him almost nervously, and Orlando realised that he should probably explain himself, lest Viggo think he was a flighty, impulsive person who did these things all the time – and only to be disappointed later when he found out that it wasn't true. He fought the urge to take off his glasses to rub at his eyes – he only did that when he was nervous, and he didn't want to start fidgeting in front of Viggo– and focused his gaze on his mug, instead.

“You're probably thinking about why I'm here, and not in Michigan,” Orlando started.

“You were in Michigan?” Viggo asked, and Orlando nodded.

“Yup. Not much of a skier, but I do know how to snowboard. Anyway, I ---”

He floundered, not quite knowing how to continue. I think I'm starting to fall for you. I couldn't go another day without seeing you. I am getting this vibe from you, you know, so I just flew over like a fool just so that I could try and explain this to you.

He really was pathetic. The people he wrote about didn't always have a way with words, but they never got this tongue-tied, either, as though the part of their brain that formed speech was paralysed or better yet, had keeled over altogether.

“You wanted to see me,” Viggo concluded after it had become obvious that Orlando didn't know how to finish the sentence, and something inside Orlando released. He smiled.

“Yeah, I did. So I booked the flight and asked Maria your address and here I am.”

Viggo's eyebrow rose at the mention of Maria, and Orlando hurried to continue. “Don't blame her. She gave you my number even though I'd told her I didn't want to talk to anyone. So it was just fair that I got your address.”

“Suppose so.” Viggo didn't look angry, like Orlando had thought he might be. Instead, he looked almost amused.

“It was getting boring in Michigan at any rate,” Orlando said, and smiled.

His nerves had finally settled, and he realised that once he got over himself, he and Viggo had the same easy rapport face-to-face that they had on the phone. And the man was so mind-numbingly attractive Orlando didn't know how to keep from making any premature advances.

Viggo offered to show him the house, and took Orlando on a tour – a short one, but a tour nonetheless. The kitchen, next to the living room, was earthy and spacious with large windows giving to the front yard; there was also a pantry attached. There was a small mudroom behind the kitchen, too.

Upstairs were the master bedroom and the adjoining bathroom, as well as a guest room with a smaller bath. Orlando took a peek at the room Viggo called his study; there were photographs everywhere, framed on the walls, spread on the tables, stacked in binders. Viggo said that he had a studio in town, and he seldom worked at home.

“I work at home,” Orlando said a bit sheepishly. “I know it might not be the best idea, but I'm too comfortable to change my ways. Or too lazy. Maybe both.”

“Whatever works for you,” Viggo said with a grin, one that Orlando easily returned.

He left his travel bag in the guest room, sternly telling himself not to be disappointed. Even if Viggo were so inclined, he'd never be as forward as to assume that Orlando would sleep in his bed. Besides, Orlando had to get used to the idea of being this attracted to someone, too. He wasn't sure if he would be up to sleeping with anyone right now, even Viggo, even though the attraction and the vibe were very much there.

Not that he would oppose to a kiss. No, not at all.

Viggo asked him if he'd warmed up sufficiently to risk going outside for a moment, 'but only as far as to the barn', and Orlando complied eagerly. They went outside, where it had stopped snowing, and Orlando had to restrain himself not to fling himself into the freshly fallen snow to make snow angels. Viggo might not think that he was completely bonkers, so it was better not to ruin that impression.

The barn was warm, and smelled of horses – well, that was to be expected – and Orlando closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He wasn't, and never had been a country boy, but he reckoned he could easily get used to this, the easy domesticity. The horses were resting, and Orlando stroked their velvety muzzles with his fingertips, careful not to spook. He had the idea that Viggo would throw out anyone who bothered his horses.

By the time they were back outside, the stars were already showing, and the temperature had dropped. Orlando turned to look at Viggo, his smile warm.

“You really have a beautiful place here, Viggo. How long have you owned the property?”

“I bought it after the divorce, in the early nineties. By then I'd had quite enough of living in the city.”

After the divorce. So, Viggo had been married at some point. Orlando filed this knowledge away, and followed him back inside the house.

~*~*~

In vino veritas. In wine, truth.

They had dinner, and after a few glasses of Shiraz Orlando felt his tongue starting to loosen. He'd already told Viggo that he'd been single for a year, and that wasn't any big news, but then he started to say how much he missed intimacy, and sex, and the nearness of another person, and then quickly clammed up.

Viggo looked at him, not saying anything, and Orlando was growing fidgety.

“Have you ever caught any flak for being publicly out?” Viggo asked.

Orlando considered. “Not really. I don't go online much, so I really can't say if there's any hate going on in there, but no-one's ever been rude about it to my face or anything. Maria says it helps that I'm pretty.”

That just slipped out, and Orlando reddened at the self-conceit that the words implied, but Viggo just grinned at that.

“I guess I'll have to agree with Maria.”

Orlando hid his confusion into his wineglass, not sure how to respond. Viggo thought he was pretty? More likely Viggo was just teasing him. They didn't talk for a while, and Orlando stared at the fire, both dreading and anticipating the time growing late. He didn't want this evening to end.

“When I was young, younger than you, even,” Viggo started, his voice soft and slightly hesitant, “back in college, I had some relationships with some of the fellow students. Male ones.”

Orlando's head whipped around in surprise, and he bit down on his tongue, hard, to keep from saying anything, to let Viggo say his piece. This clearly wasn't something that Viggo brought up with just anyone. Viggo continued after a brief pause.

“It all dwindled down pretty soon after graduating, though, and I didn't give it all that much thought. Then I met Chris, and our son was born, and we got married, and that pretty much covered all of the eighties and the early nineties too. I've seen some people after the divorce, wonderful women like Maria, but --- I didn't want to be dishonest to anyone, but there it was. I suppose what I'm trying to say that in the recent years, now that I'm middle-aged, I'm starting to lean toward the men again. Not that there's been anyone. Just passing interest every once in a while.”

Orlando processed this, studying Viggo's face, and saw that Viggo didn't look uncomfortable after this admission; rather he looked relieved to finally tell someone.

“Well, you should at the very least be commended for not leading the women you were seeing on,” Orlando said carefully. He told himself that Viggo's confession didn't necessarily have anything to do with him, but the wild flare of hope in his chest refused to dwindle. “Was this the reason that you and Maria, among other people, weren't 'each other's type'?”

Viggo nodded. “She wanted to know what was wrong, and I had to be honest with her. She deserved that. And we've been friends since.”

Orlando moistened his lips which were suddenly parched with his tongue as what Viggo was saying sank in. Viggo was bisexual? And Maria knew that Viggo was bisexual, and hadn't said a word to him? He would happily strangle that woman next time he saw her.

“Well, considering all this, I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable by coming over like this,” he said finally, and Viggo winced.

“No, I'm sorry that I went rambling away like that. You probably didn't even want to know all that.”

Before he could second guess himself, Orlando said, “I did, actually, I just never would have dared to ask.” He licked his lips again, suddenly aware that Viggo was staring at his mouth, and then blushing.

“You mean that you were ---?”

“Yeah, I'm attracted to you, and I've been agonizing about whether you're just into women.”

Alright, so he had just gone all-in; too late to back down. Now Viggo was definitely staring at his mouth, and there was an invitation on that look, and Orlando didn't think for a second that he just imagined seeing it. He put down his wine, and took off his glasses – he knew from experience that once you started snogging, your glasses were likely to get knocked off pretty quickly – and then scooted over to where Viggo was sitting.

Their eyes met, and then it was Orlando's turn to drop his gaze to Viggo's lips, and the small scar on the upper one that had caught his attention when they had first met. Slowly and carefully he crossed the small distance between them, and brought his mouth to Viggo's.

Viggo exhaled hard at the initial contact, and it felt to Orlando almost as though he were shivering. Then Orlando's eyes slipped closed as Viggo responded to the kiss, opening his lips a little and turning his head just so. One of Viggo's hands came to rest on Orlando's thigh, and his other arm wrapped around his shoulder to pull him a little closer.

We're making out, Orlando thought giddily, and then couldn't think anything for a long while because Viggo did know how to kiss, even if it clearly had been a while since the last time, and his nearness was filling Orlando's senses in ways he had long forgotten.

Finally they parted, and Viggo drew in a shuddering breath while Orlando leaned back on the couch's backrest and tried to make sense of everything. One, he had gone in for the kill, so to speak, which was very unlike him (Orlando didn't usually think of himself as particularly assertive). Two, Viggo had responded much more enthusiastically than he would have dared to hope; at best, he'd thought Viggo would welcome the kiss, and reciprocate too, but this? And three, he was painfully hard, and if they were to keep this up he would likely cream his jeans for the first time since his teenage years.

It seemed that his brain dealt with the sensory overload by making a neat list of things. How convenient, and odd. Orlando had to suppress a smile at this, suddenly giddy all over again.

Viggo broke the silence first.

“I haven't had a kiss like that in years,” he said. “Thank you.”

Suddenly Orlando felt uncomfortable for no reason he wanted to name. He'd heard this one before, that was great but I'm straight actually, thanks, and even though he knew – or hoped – that Viggo wouldn't be one of those men, a thank you wasn't what he wanted to hear.

“No need to thank me,” he said awkwardly, and reached for his glasses; it seemed that snogging-time was over for the time being. “Um, do you mind if I turn in for the night? I thought I could maybe shower before going to bed.”

Viggo's face seemed to fall at that, but maybe it was just Orlando's imagination. “Of course. There should be a fresh towel in the bathroom.”

Orlando rose awkwardly; his hard-on was wilting, but it was still there, and he didn't want to make this any more embarrassing for either of them. Viggo clearly thought Orlando was kissing him out of pity, or out of kindness, and right now he was too tired – and too hyped up, as well – to know how to even start dealing with that. Better to do that in the morning. Preferably after a nice wank in the shower and a good night's sleep.

He made it short, however, because he wasn't sure about the water heating system in Viggo's house, and thought it would be awfully rude to use up all of Viggo's hot water. After donning a comfy, almost threadbare t-shirt and a pair of sweats, he went back downstairs. A part of him wanted to cower in the guest room until the following morning, but that would be bad manners, and so he made himself go.

Viggo was in the kitchen, doing the dishes (he washed the wine glasses by hand, and loaded all the other things in the dishwasher) and turned when he heard Orlando come in.

“I suppose I said the wrong thing, there,” Viggo said, looking serious, and Orlando softened at the tone.

“You didn't. I just took it the wrong way, because I wasn't doing that just for you. Or out of pity or anything else equally misguided. So I guess I'll just thank you, too, for a really nice kiss. It was pretty amazing.”

Viggo smiled at that, looking relieved, and then looked Orlando over from head to toe. “You might want to wear something a bit warmer; the house tends to cool down on such cold nights. I could find you a spare blanket for the night.”

“No, I'm fine. British, remember, used to draughty houses,” Orlando said, but that one look had almost got him hot again. “Good night, and I'll see you in the morning.”

“Good night.” Viggo watched him go, and Orlando was well aware of that look all the way up the stairs.

~*~*~

Viggo hadn't been joking; it was the middle of the night, and Orlando felt like he was freezing his bollocks off. His teeth didn't quite chatter, but it was a very near thing, and he briefly entertained the idea of going downstairs to find his parka, wrapping himself up in it and toughing it out until morning.

It didn't help matters any that his thoughts were chasing each other in his brain like a pair of chipmunks in speed. It had been a long day, and that kiss... Well, it had been a long time since he'd had a kiss like that, too. If only he hadn't taken Viggo's words the wrong way, Viggo might have kissed him again. And again...

After yet another half an hour of miserable tossing and turning, he gave up the thin hope that he could get some sleep. The thin bed cover he'd thrown over the duvet hadn't added to the warmth any, so perhaps Viggo could find him that spare blanket just so that he could get a good shut-eye until it was time to get up.

Viggo's bedroom was quiet and dark. The door was open to the hall, and Orlando knocked lightly on the door frame. “Hey, you awake?”

Viggo made a small noise and turned over, the shuffling sounds quite indistinct to Orlando's ears. Then, “Hmm, Orlando?”

“Yeah, it's me, I'm sorry but I really am freezing, if you could just tell me where you keep the spare blankets, I'll be out of your hair,” Orlando said quickly. He was even more cold now that he was out of the bed, and he was shivering. He wrapped his arms around his torso, trying to keep warm, but his flesh was already chilled.

Viggo made another sleepy noise, and then, “come here. This bed's big enough for both.”

Orlando didn't move. “I can't take your bed, mate.” As tempting as the offer is.

“Stop arguing and get in.” Viggo might be sleepy, but he managed to sound assertive all the same.

Orlando stifled a crazy giggle. This had all the makings of a tacky seduction attempt, or a bad porn flick, if not for the fact that he was legitimately freezing, and Viggo sounded like he was going to fall back asleep any second now. And who was he trying to impress by denying himself the comfort of a pre-warmed bed? Especially with a warm Viggo in it?

“No funny business,” he said primly, and crossed the floor to Viggo's bed. The duvet was lifted so that he could easily slide underneath it, and it was so lovely and warm that he couldn't withhold a small moan of enjoyment. Viggo was practically baking.

“'night,” Viggo slurred, and then he was back asleep. Orlando turned over carefully to find a more comfortable position, and found that he could tuck his head against Viggo's shoulder without waking him up.

The shivers faded little by little, and by the time he'd warmed up all the way down to his toes he was asleep.

~*~*~

“I half hoped that the fact that you had Sam fall in love with David meant that you weren't averse to the thought of seeing an older man,” Viggo said the next morning.

He'd prepared breakfast, and made both tea and coffee to go with the toast and the bacon. A second batch of the bacon was presently sizzling and popping in the frying pan.

To Orlando, it felt that last night had been one surreal dream, but he couldn't dispute the fact that he had woken up in Viggo's bed. All dressed up and untouched, but in Viggo's bed nonetheless, where the pillowcases carried Viggo's scent. All in all it had been a wonderful thing to wake up to.

They had talked about this and that while Orlando drank his tea and ate his share of the bacon and Viggo puttered about; nothing personal, but still comforting. Neither had mentioned the kiss. Orlando thought that Viggo might have some regrets. He had probably come on a bit too strong, considering that Viggo hadn't been with a man in years (or decades, even) and so he'd decided, with some reluctance, to let the matter lie unless Viggo brought it up. It seemed that Viggo had decided to do just that.

“Hoped? Why?” Orlando asked, too surprised at the sudden turn of the conversation to manage anything else.

Viggo gave him a look that on anyone else would have looked sheepish. “Well, I thought it was made clear last night that I too found you attractive. So let's call that a fool man's hope.”

“Found me attractive? What's with the past tense?” Orlando feigned being put off, because he didn't know how else to respond. It certainly beat howling out in triumph like a Tarzan-come-caveman. He'd almost driven himself crazy thinking that Viggo wouldn't be interested, or that Viggo might be somewhat interested but he'd have to do a lot of convincing and cajoling to get him to admit it, and here he was saying that he'd found Orlando attractive all along. It was almost too good to be true.

“Alright, find you attractive. I thought you said you weren't one of the bitchy novelists,” Viggo said, and this time Orlando's jaw did drop down.

“Quit calling me bitchy, I was just pulling your leg,” he said sulkily, and then ducked as Viggo flung a fried bacon strip his way. “And no food fights. We're not exactly eight years old.”

Viggo's smile faded a little. “No. You're thirty-one. And I'm quite a bit older.”

Oh-kay. Viggo was really bringing it up now, so he had to make every word count.

“And I thought I've made it quite clear that it doesn't matter to me.” Orlando took another sip of his tea while he organized his thoughts. It seemed that they were headed to the deeper waters now, and he had to get to say his piece before Viggo talked himself out of finding him attractive. “Look, I'm not saying that just because there seems to be a mutual interest that we should start being boyfriends or something like that. Or just because we kissed we should start seeing each other. But I would really like that. If you think I'm too young for you, or I don't know, too immature, or too out, well, that's your prerogative of course. I've had some bad experiences with past boyfriends, and I have serious trust issues that I'm trying to work on, but I really want to give this a try, because I truly think that we could have something together. I wouldn't have flown over if I didn't. And I'm making a speech, aren't I? Maria says I always do that. She says it makes me sound preachy. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” Viggo said immediately. “And you're right. I have thought about your age, and I do think you're a bit too young for a man my age, but it would be stupid to let that be the deciding thing.”

“Exactly,” Orlando said. “Now come here.”

Viggo looked vaguely puzzled, but left the stove to come to where Orlando was sitting. He was holding a spatula in one hand and a kitchen towel in another, and Orlando couldn't help smiling. Viggo smiled back, and had one moment to look surprised before Orlando's hand came to rest on his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Forward or not forward, but he had to have one more kiss.

It was greasy, and salty, and bacony all around, and Orlando's hard on from the night before was back with a vengeance. He had a stray thought about not having had sex for a year – and for Viggo it had likely been even longer – and how either of them wouldn't last two minutes if they were to go to bed; then the spatula went flying and the heel of Viggo's hand was rubbing at his crotch, and Orlando mewled into the kiss when Viggo rubbed him just right, just the way he liked it best, and all too soon he came, his hips jerking in the aftershocks.

Viggo didn't look the least bit apologetic at having made Orlando come in his pants; rather he looked feral, and Orlando felt a frisson of new excitement go through him at the look in his eyes. It was on, and he couldn't think of one single thing why they shouldn't do this.

“Let's go to bed, and have breakfast later,” he suggested, greatly daring, and Viggo pulled him up from his chair as soon as he'd finished the words.

The kitchen towel went flying next, along with Orlando's glasses.

~*~*~

The fact that he had come once already made the sex all the more pleasurable for Orlando; he could concentrate more on Viggo than his own needs, more on the responses and the moans, on Viggo's body and where he enjoyed being touched, and by the time that he had Viggo inside him, he was again hard himself, his cock hard and hot as a poker against his stomach. Viggo was shivering all over now, clearly fighting against coming too soon, and so they didn't start moving at once, but got used to the feeling of the other, kissing and nuzzling with noses, until the imperative to move drove out all other considerations.

It had been a while, and Orlando was aching at the stretch, but it was so good that it didn't matter one whit whether he'd be walking funnily all day afterwards. Viggo whispered his name when he came, and together they made Orlando come again on his belly in slow, sweet contractions.

And this was where he, they, belonged. Viggo held him close, and it was that tenderness, so unexpected, that made him truly see that Viggo wasn't like Eric at all, not even in this small thing, and it was a great thing to realise. A liberating thing.

His brain still in scrambles, Orlando thought lazily about whether his writing career was officially over; he'd written his two most recent books in the state of unhappiness and disillusion, and both books had been critically acclaimed and quite well-received. Now, he would probably only manage sappy, mushy stuff with no plot in sight. He would write Harlequin romance for the rest of his days, where the boys met boys, boys lost boys, boys got back together with boys and romped happily ever after.

That didn't seem too dismal.

Leaving Viggo's side now that he had made it here, however, was.

Viggo sensed a shift in Orlando's mood and asked if it had hurt too much.

“No, it's not that at all.” Orlando gave him a quick kiss to further disabuse him of the notion, but couldn't help the melancholy. “I just realised that I don't want to leave to do the stupid book signing thing.” His voice threatened to crack, and he was suddenly angry at himself for wanting to cry. One shag and he was turning into a weepy girl. Great way to welcome Viggo back to the world of man loving.

“Do you have to? Can you call it off?” Viggo asked, instead.

“Probably, but Maria would be hell-bent on finding out why,” he said. “She'd have to make up something suitable for the press. And the publisher too.”

Viggo looked a bit bemused. “Well, I don't see why you couldn't call Maria and tell her what's up.” He saw the change in Orlando's expression and hurried to continue, “Of course, you might not want to advertise the fact that you're shacking up with me ---”

“Oh shut up,” Orlando said, now laughing, and pulled out the pillow from under Viggo's head to smack him with it. “You're a genius! God, Maria is going to kill me. Or you. Or she's going to squeal and make me deaf.”

Viggo fished his cell phone from the night drawer and handed it to Orlando, his face totally deadpan. Orlando started to laugh again, and then dialled Maria's number. She was going to kill him. He just knew it. Kill him and then make him grovel to the moon and back, but it would be worth it, just to say the words.

Sorry, I can't make it this Thursday, I'm up in Idaho with Viggo.

finis

Fic: Writing Through (V/O, 1/2)

2012-05-01T15:52:23Z

Title: Writing Through (1/2)
Author: laeglass
Pairing: VM/OB
Rating: Nc-17
Warnings: mentions of past abuse (non-graphic)
Disclaimer: Not true, not mine. All made up.
Summary: Sometimes a second chance is all you need.
A/N: Beta by rhodynne *hugs*. Written for last year's viggorli_xmas.

Orlando felt his cheeks starting to stiffen from all the smiling and wished that he could take a break, or better yet, take off entirely. No-one would probably miss him, anyway, or even really notice that he had left. This was the after party, so to speak, and he wasn't the most celebrated person in the room, anyway.

Not a nobody by any means, Orlando had four novels published, the third one being the one that brought him to the national limelight. The first had been a rather obscure tale of an all boys boarding school, and a rather sulky protagonist angsting his way through the schooling system, and the second one expanded to the later years. The third one, the successful one, had been about a man living in one of the remote Antarctica weather stations, having correspondence with several people of his past, who in the end were all revealed to be just figments of the man's imagination.

In the present, Orlando was doing his best not to show his boredom. God, he despised these things; book signings were a lark compared to this. Get-togethers, or matinees, or conferences, or whatever one wanted to call them, they all came down to the same thing; you had to socialize, and mingle, and make nice with people with whom you had nothing in common.

Well, nothing wasn't exactly right. Nothing but the same publishing house was more accurate.

Not that he was a hermit, or didn't know how to get along. He just preferred not to.

His publicist, Maria, brought him another drink and reminded him not to sulk.

“I'm not sulking,” Orlando protested, and surreptitiously rubbed his cheek muscles with his fingertips to relieve the pressure of the overworked muscles.

God, fake smiling actually hurt. He actively resisted the urge to rub at his eyes; his contact lenses were killing him. Why he ever gave into that vanity was anybody's guess, but he'd be damned if he didn't take those damned things off the second he was out of this 'do.

“You are,” Maria said. “But that's okay, doll. Two hours, tops. This thing is already winding down. You won't have to talk to anyone for two weeks, right?”

She was referring to Orlando's little get-away, as she liked to call it; he'd booked a flight to 'nowhere' (his actual words) and had stressed that he wouldn't be available during the two weeks that he'd be away.

“Yeah,” Orlando said dreamily. Maria scoffed at him but smiled, and watched him sip at his drink.

“It's just that... I know everyone,” he complained, taking in the big room and its occupants. “They're not any more interesting than they were last time, or before that. I swear I've never --”

He trailed off when he spotted a man, middle-aged and blue-eyed, standing by the buffet table and examining the offerings. Now this man Orlando hadn't seen before, and he took his time taking the man in. Nice suit, longish hair. It said something about this 'do that this man was the most interesting thing so far, and they hadn't even talked! Maria caught him staring, and turned to follow his gaze.

“Well, hello, handsome,” she said under her breath. “Been a while since I last saw him.”

“You know this man?” Orlando tried not to sound accusatory and failed. That bloke was practically the Merriam-Webster definition of sexy. Maria knew this man and hadn't ever thought to perhaps introduce them; what the hell was wrong with her?

“That's Viggo Mortensen. He never comes to these things. Never. I wonder what brought him out this time.” Maria smiled a little and then turned back to Orlando. “We dated, for a while, a few years back. It didn't work out.”

Straight. That figured. Orlando felt a brief stab of irrational jealousy, and brushed it off. What was that to him, anyway? Maria was always dating someone, Prince Charmings who always turned out to be less than charming after all. And boy had he been there too, and got burned.

“Oh. He was a jerk, then?”

Maria was surprised into a bark of laughter. “Jerk? Not in the slightest. He's the kindest man you'll ever meet. We just weren't each other's type.”

“I'm sorry,” Orlando offered, and took another long look at this Viggo Mortensen. Not tall, not strikingly handsome, not standing out, really, but something about him... “So what's his genre? Don't say detective novels. I detest those people.”

Maria bit into an olive and made an 'oh so good' face before answering his question. “He's not a novelist, he's a photographer. A bigger hermit than you are, doll.”

Well, that sealed it; a hermit he could deal with, a bitchy detective novelist, not so much. What else was there to do, besides? Sulking in the corner, getting more and more drunk as the night passed on, and swearing up and down to never turn up at one of these things again?

Right, that was last year. Orlando wasn't much looking forward to repeating all that. Even slinking out had lost most of its appeal after spotting that man.

“Introduce us,” Orlando demanded, and then added, “Please.”

Maria ate another olive without saying anything, her eyebrow raised. Orlando matched her stare for a moment, and then gave up. He could never out-stare her.

“There's something about him... I don't know. He's a fresh face. And if I have to listen to one more person bitching about sparkling vamps I'll go crazy.”

What was left unsaid was, you know it's been ages since I last took interest in anyone. He didn't have to say that, because Maria knew; she had been the one to pick up the pieces after his last break-up and deal with the months long aftermath.

Maria shrugged, and took his arm. “Alright, doll. I promise Viggo won't even recognise the reference.”

Orlando noted that Viggo had collected a plateful of seafood and was currently contemplating a tray of fried scallops. Up close the man was even more attractive, and Orlando felt a momentary doubt about whether this was wise, getting to know this man who already had affected him this badly without them even having exchanged any words. He quashed his nerves, calling himself nine kinds of fool for even thinking that – he only wanted to say hello, and introduce himself, not propose – and approached.

“I wouldn't recommend those. Too heavy on the lemon,” Orlando said, coming to a stop next to Viggo, close enough for intimate conversation, but not close enough to crowd. He hated it when people did that.

A raised eyebrow greeted his commentary. “I think I'll try just one, then,” Viggo said, and added one scallop to his plate. “I happen to like lemon.”

“So you're the one I keep hearing about, the elusive lemon lover,” Orlando said. “Never mind me, then.”

“I'll try not to,” Viggo said seriously, and then he noticed Maria. “Maria, hello.”

“Hi, Viggo,” she said warmly, and stepped closer for a greeting kiss on the cheek. “Why you look fabulous. That is to say you haven't changed much in the two years since I saw you last. Jerk.”

All this was said lightly, and Orlando again felt the pinprick of jealousy as Viggo laughed.

“Spare me the scolding, Maria. You look wonderful too.”

Maria beamed at him at the compliment, and Orlando couldn't help wondering whether she actually was over him. Well, they probably didn't want a third wheel, and that feeling had still to leave him, the almost certainty that making Viggo's acquaintance would be akin to courting for trouble. Perhaps retreat would be the best option at this point.

“Well, I'll leave you two to get reacquainted,” Orlando said, and turned to leave, but Maria grasped his arm before he could flee.

“Orlando, doll, don't be daft. I want you to meet Viggo. Viggo, this is Orlando Bloom, one of my boys, and a true talent. Orlando, this is Viggo Mortensen, he's a photographer, and a recluse.” The last bit earned her a glare from Viggo.

“Hello,” Orlando said, and offered his hand in greeting. He couldn't help his gaze dropping down to Viggo's mouth. There was a scar on the upper lip, and it suddenly irked him that Maria knew how it felt to kiss him.

“Hello, Orlando,” Viggo said, and shook his hand briefly. “Are you a writer?”

“Yes, actually. My latest book came out three weeks ago.” Still staring at that mouth. Orlando gave himself a mental shake and tried to focus his attention on the conversation. “How about you?”

“I have one work in the editorial stage, a photographic book,” Viggo said. “It should come out sometime after Christmas, most likely in February, or so I'm told. Although that changes every time I hear back from them.”

Maria glanced at something over Orlando's shoulder and said, “I'm sorry, boys, I just saw someone I've been trying to talk to all night, I'll be right back.”

She aimed a smirk at Orlando as she waltzed past him, and he realised that she had probably picked up on both his attraction to Viggo, and his jealousy of seeing her interacting with Viggo so easily. That sneaky woman. He supposed he owed her. He quickly raked his brain to continue the discussion.

“So, what's your subject? People, nature....?”

“Nature, and animals, mostly. Sometimes people, but not that often.” Viggo shrugged almost self-consciously. “I'm not really good at talking about my work, actually. Usually other people take care of that for me.”

“Oh. I understand,” Orlando said, a little disappointed.

“How about your book? What is it about?”

Now it was Orlando's turn to feel a little self-conscious. “Um, it's about, in its core, it's about love.”

“Love?”

“Yeah. I write romance. Mainly.”

Now Viggo would give him a patronizing smile and fake interest in what he would see as a boy/girl meets boy/girl, loses boy/girl and in the end gets together with boy/girl type of drivel.

“So what happens in your book?”

“Well, there's this boy, or a man actually, who's drifting in the world and trying to find his place. And he meets different kinds of people on his journeys but he doesn't want to be tied down into anyone or anything.” Orlando smiled, forcing it just a little. He wasn't all that much better at talking about his work, it seemed. Usually it helped to flash a big smile, followed with a recommendation to read the book. “I don't want to spoil the ending just in case you want to read it.”

“Is it any good?” Viggo asked, causing Orlando to raise an eyebrow.

“That's a bit cheeky,” he said. “I'd like to think it isn't totally shit. I don't think it is.”

Viggo nodded. “I might look it up some time.”

Orlando snorted. “It's not like you have to. It's not going to get on the best-seller list, in any case. Not enough sparkle for the big audience.”

He could have bit his tongue as the last bit came out of his mouth. He was falling back to the snappy 'Twilight has ruined the romance genre' mode that he despised in others.

“I'm sorry. A little snipe at the industry my kind are prone to,” he said, in answer to Viggo's perplexed look.

“Your kind?”

“Romance novelists.” Orlando shrugged.

“Oh. If you say so.”

Maria was right; this bloke was an even worse social conversationalist than he, Orlando, was. He tried to find something to talk about, a common topic, because he was still getting that vibe. Maria. They had Maria in common.

“So, how long have you known Maria?” he asked.

Viggo hesitated, and Orlando wondered whether he was trying to answer his question accurately, or was appalled at such a personal question. “Five years, give or take six months.”

“She said you dated for a while,” he said, making it sound like a question.

Viggo was clearly uncomfortable now. “We did.”

“She said it didn't work out,” Orlando said, trying not to sound like he was dishing.

“I'd rather not discuss such personal stuff,” Viggo said curtly, and Orlando took a step back, stung at the snappish reply. Not that he hadn't been curious, but people usually were a bit more graceful about wanting to evade some topics. That snappish tone brought back some ugly old memories, too, and his instant, no-thought reaction was to flee.

“Right. Well, I should probably go home, early morning flight and all that. Leaving on a holiday, actually. So, yeah, good luck with your book and everything. Hope to see you again sometime. Bye.”

With that, he bolted, without giving Viggo the chance to reply.

~*~*~

Merriam-Webster defined attraction as the act, process, or power of attracting, and also as the force acting mutually between particles of matter, tending to draw them together, and resisting their separation.

Orlando wondered if he were so badly out of the loop that he no longer recognised attraction, but wrote it off for a vibe, or a feeling.

He was a sorry excuse for a romance novelist, anyway. It had been over a year since his last meaningful relationship, and he hadn't pursued anyone since. I've probably forgotten how to kiss, Orlando thought moodily, let alone how to be someone's lover. All I remember is how to be a doormat.

A romance novelist who was celibate, for all intents and purposes, who didn't remember how it felt to share your body heat with another, and how to create more heat, shouldn't probably write about said stuff as though he were the expert.

It had been a week since he had met Viggo, and to his annoyance Orlando had thought of little else during his chosen seclusion.

That scar on his lip. The too long hair that brushed the collar of his shirt. Those faded blue eyes. The raise of a sandy eyebrow at Orlando's cheekiness.

And the curt dismissal at a too-curious enquiry.

Gods, he was worse than a teenager with his first crush. This was ridiculous. He should know better.

“I am not attracted to some holier-than-thou photographer who is probably straight anyway,” he said aloud, and his treacherous brain continued, He's probably banging some woman right now. Maybe he hooked up with Maria again once I was out of the way.

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. Now there was a mental image he didn't need. Not that he would ever begrudge Maria getting it on with an attractive – no, scratch that, make that gorgeous – man; at least as long as that man wasn't Viggo.

Orlando entertained the idea that Viggo had asked around about him, or maybe he'd gone online and googled his name. He tried to imagine Viggo's reaction if, or rather when he found out that Orlando was gay. He would perhaps think that Orlando only wrote gay romance. He would probably also think that Orlando had been hitting on him. He would possibly deduce that Orlando was sex-starved.

No, that last bit was definitely just him. Orlando groaned again and palmed at his crotch. He was pathetic, getting all worked up over a man he’d met just once, but surely there was no harm in relieving some of the pressure the old fashioned way. If anything, that would make it easier to forget about Viggo afterwards.

He wished.

~*~*~

Orlando's cell phone beeped somewhere in the darkness that served as his bedroom. Orlando cracked one eye open, and peered at the alarm clock placed on the night drawer, the digits glowing in the dark. Half past six. In the evening, he presumed, unless he'd slept a solid fourteen hours. He'd crawled on to the bed, still in his sweater and jeans, and curled there with one pillow tucked beneath his head, for a little nap. That had been sometime after four, he reckoned.

Surprised that he hadn't remembered to turn the thing off after ringing his mother, Orlando fished the cell phone from underneath a pile of laundry from the past week.

A text message.

Read your book.

Orlando raised an eyebrow at the single line, and then shrugged. Okay, so some reader had managed to acquire his phone number. That was no big deal. Maria said he sometimes got fan mail too (not that he had the time to actually start up a correspondence), and he'd never had an unpleasant run-in with a fan. There were a few ardent ones, he supposed, but they were always courteous. He considered himself lucky.

He texted back, Glad to hear.

He picked up his glasses from the night drawer and put them on, and then trudged to the kitchen to get something to drink. Maybe he should fix something to eat while he was at it, too, although he wasn't all that hungry. So far, he'd taken walks outside, gone snowboarding a couple of times, and then come back inside for long, comfortable naps. This was the life. At least until next week.

His stomach made a demanding noise, and Orlando headed to the cupboards. He had olive oil, some garlic and chilli, and some farfalle pasta, just enough for a simple meal for one.

He was in the process of chopping the garlic when the cell phone beeped again. Orlando rolled his eyes at the interruption, and opened the SMS.

Enjoyed it, actually. The ending was good. Can I call you?

“Can I call you,” Orlando read out loud, and shook his head. Okay, so he was texting with some crazy person. Next thing he'd know would be waking up in some Misery-type setting, drugged out of his mind and getting his leg amputated.

Orlando snorted at this worst case scenario, and texted back. Sure, I'm just fixing dinner, so I'm afraid I can't talk long.

By the time that the phone rang, the farfalle was in the boiling water, the chilli and the garlic were sizzling in the olive oil, and the smells wafting from the pan were making his stomach grumble greedily.

“Hello,” he answered, his heart rate suddenly through the roof.

“Hi, it's Viggo,” the caller said, and Orlando let out a huge breath.

“Viggo, as in Viggo Mortensen? Oh, my god, I thought I was dealing with some fangirl or boy,” he said, and laughed.

“Sorry if you're disappointed,” Viggo said from the other end. “I thought it'd be nice to talk some more.”

Oh, really, after last time? Orlando didn't give that thought voice, however, but instead asked where Viggo had procured his number.

“Maria gave it to me.”

“I told her I wouldn't be available,” Orlando said, and squeezed the cell phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he needed both hands to drain the pasta. “How did you manage that?”

“She owed me one,” Viggo simply said. “I also told her I needed to apologize to you.”

“Apologise? What for?” Orlando mixed the garlic and the chilli with the steaming hot pasta, and then grabbed a plate from the cupboard. He'd already poured himself a glass of wine (the first portion of alcohol he'd allowed himself since coming here) and realised suddenly he was famished.

“I was rather abrupt the last time we talked, and I thought you were offended. Maria told me that you two are friends of old. I didn't realize that.”

Orlando had taken a first bite of his pasta while Viggo talked, and mmh'ed in appreciation at the spicy flavour.

“Oh, it's all right. I honestly didn't mean to pry. Maria did tell me you're a private person, and I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Well, I'm glad you don't bear a grudge,” Viggo said. “I did read your book. It surprised me.”

“Really?” Orlando asked. “What about it?”

“Well, for starters, I didn't expect your protagonist to end up together with the old man he'd been writing postcards to,” Viggo said. “Although it was clear that David was in love with Sam from the start. I thought it would just end up in heartbreak.”

“I don't like heartbreak,” Orlando said. “I mean, I don't like easy fixes, either, but I do like to believe that every once in a while it's possible to take a good look at how things are going and learn something from it. Sam had been in love with David all along, it just took him a few years and a few other encounters to really see that.”

“Well, it was a very good read. I hope to see it doing well. Even if there aren't any vampires in it.”

Orlando realised that Viggo was gently pulling his leg, and laughed.

“Yeah, well, I doubt it'd make a good movie regardless,” he said. “But I'm glad you liked the book, and I appreciate you letting me know.”

He took a sip of his wine and regretted the fact that Viggo was probably thousands of miles away. It was easy to talk to him, still, even if he normally wasn't that good on the phone with people he hardly knew. There was a reason why he didn't do telephone interviews. Maria always told him that people needed to see his mug to get the full brunt of his charm. Orlando wasn't sure whether the compliment was backhanded or not.

“Are you home?” he asked, and realised he didn't know where 'home' was for Viggo.

“I'm at the ranch, yes.” There were some scuffling noises, and Orlando's interest was piqued further. Was Viggo loading a fireplace?

“Where's your ranch?” Orlando asked, taking a comfortable position in the stuffed chair he'd migrated to. He'd intended to make the call a short one, but since it was Viggo... well, he was in no hurry.

“In Idaho. Gets pretty cold this time of the year.”

“I'll just bet.”

They talked some more, Orlando asked about life in Idaho, and Viggo asked where Orlando had taken off to, only to be told that Orlando didn't want to divulge that bit of information and not even Maria knew, winding up to the subject of their respective professions and mutual interests. It seemed both enjoyed horseback riding and outdoors, and the works of Bob Dylan and J.R.R. Tolkien.

Orlando started to contemplate inviting himself to Viggo's place, but then reminded himself that Viggo was a private person, and although the conversation flowed easily, it was quite another thing to assume that Viggo would want to pursue a friendship with him, let alone anything more intimate.

“I'm glad you called,” he finally said, after he'd yawned for the third time in the past minute. “Have a good Christmas and take care. Maybe we'll run into each other again in some work event.”

“Maybe we will. Good night, Orlando.”

Oh, the way his name sounded when Viggo spoke it. Orlando told himself that he wasn't smitten, at all, and wished Viggo good night as well.

They ended the call, and Orlando pep-talked himself out of the feeling of melancholy wistfulness. This Viggo was a decent person, but it wasn't going to turn into anything, and all in all it was a good sign that he was finally showing interest in someone after almost a year of solitary moping. Maybe he was finally moving on.

But damnit, he was still getting that vibe, that elusive feeling that given a fair chance, he and Viggo could be so good together, and it was bloody unfair that it wasn't just meant to be.

~*~*~

The following evening he'd just got the fire going when the phone rang. Damn, he still hadn't remembered to turn the thing off. Brushing aside the notion that he'd left the cell phone on in the hopes of Viggo calling again, he screened the call before answering.

“Hi, Viggo,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Hi, Orlando.” A brief silence. “Is it cold where you are?”

“How did you... Yes, it is,” Orlando said, and then brushed his lips with the tips of his fingers, feeling the smile. A bloke gives me a call and I go all mushy inside, how pathetic. And wonderful.

“It sounded like you have a fire going,” Viggo said. “Did you have your dinner already?”

Oh. He hadn't remembered the dinner excuse the night before. Busted.

“No, I just came inside.” Instant replay of the words in his mind. “I mean I went for a walk earlier. It's a bit chilly in here so I thought I should build a fire. No fun waking up in the middle of the night and freezing your arse off. Besides, I enjoy a live fire.”

“Do you have snow? We got seven inches last night. Had to spend the morning shovelling.”

Orlando swallowed a quip about the seven inches. “Yeah, not much though. I suppose the broadcast promised some snowfall for tomorrow. But I'll be leaving in a few days, anyway, so I doubt I'll get stranded.”

He eased slightly, letting Viggo to steer the conversation. Viggo told him that he was currently all on his lonesome at the ranch, but he was expecting his son and his daughter-in-law over for Christmas. Orlando felt his stomach plummet at the mention of Viggo's son. Kid probably meant an ex-wife. That didn't of course mean that he couldn't like the occasional bloke, but still. He dated women, and Maria wasn't the last of them, most probably.

“I don't have any special plans for Christmas,” he said. “I suppose I'll go to Maria's for Boxing Day dinner, as usual, but that is all. I don't mind.”

That wasn't exactly the truth, but Orlando wasn't going to ruin the call by moping about his loneliness.

“If I remember correctly, Maria is a very decent cook.” Viggo hesitated. “I don't mean to pry, but she said that you're not seeing anyone right now.”

Orlando couldn't help a snort. “No. I actually haven't been seeing anyone for a year. A bit sad, isn't it? I don't like to advertise that fact in the interviews.”

“Well, it is sad only if you'd rather have it otherwise,” Viggo said. “Or how sad do you think it is that I haven't dated anyone since I stopped going out with Maria?”

“Really? She said that was a few years ago,” Orlando blurted.

“It was. I'm not much of a social person. And... Well, there had been some other relationships that didn't turn out too well. I thought maybe it was time to step back from dating people and start living my own life.”

Orlando took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “If you have some piece of wisdom you'd like to share, I'd appreciate it. To be perfectly honest, this has been a really tough year. But I wouldn't want to think of myself as one of those people who can't be happy unless they're in a relationship, you know?”

Viggo hesitated. “Don't take this the wrong way, but I can't help thinking that someone like you cannot face that much trouble in meeting interesting people, who are also interested in you.”

“Well, I'm not exactly a 'what you see is what you get'. I'm actually really clumsy. When I'm working I can't spare a thought to anything else. I've been on painkillers since I was seventeen. Oh, and I wear glasses, all the time. Hate the contacts. Not so sexy, really. Or the fact that I don't like to wear anything other than a pair of sweats when I'm home.” He cringed. That was a bit more than he'd intended to say, pouring out all the things that Eric used to hate about him. Great going. Viggo was surely going to fall for him now.

“Sweats, huh? How about I don't necessarily change out of the pyjamas all day, except when I go out to feed the horses,” Viggo said, completely deadpan.

“And then we wonder why we're not seeing anyone,” Orlando said, a laughter bubbling up, and then Viggo joined him.

“I suppose you're onto something there,” Viggo said. “The publishing house 'do was the first time I've worn a suit in at least a year.”

Orlando laughed, and then again felt the small stab of melancholy. He suddenly realised that he did want to be a part of this man's life, only he didn't know in what capacity. There was a spark, but maybe it was one-sided. Maybe Viggo was reaching out to him in the hopes of gaining a friend. He wasn't sure if he could be content with that, but if that was all that Viggo wanted, or offered, he would have to learn to be.

Viggo asked about his plans after he got back from his get-away. Orlando wanted to detect real interest in the answer, but wasn't sure.

“Well, I have some promoting left to do,” he said with a sigh. “Book signings, book store visits, all that. It can be fun, but tiring too. And don't I sound like a spoiled brat, complaining about it.”

“Nothing bratty about stating a fact,” Viggo said. “I've always found promoting the hardest part of the work.”

“Oh, tell me about it,” Orlando said in a mock whine, and then dropped it. “It'll be over by Christmas, in any case. I'm sure I can persevere.”

“You're young, you'll bounce right back,” Viggo said, and then there were scuffling noises as though he were moving about. “Looks like it's starting to snow again. I'm afraid I'm back to shovelling before the path to the barn gets blocked. I'm in big trouble then.”

“I should get to making dinner,” Orlando said gloomily. “Did I mention it's another thing I'm not so good at?”

“No, but I remember that you don't like lemon,” Viggo said.

“I wouldn't say that I don't like lemon, but I enjoy all things in moderation,” Orlando parried. “Well, it was nice talking to you. Again. Say hello to the horses for me.”

“Will do.”

They ended the call, and although he was hungry, Orlando forewent the preparation of dinner and nibbled on some bread, instead, while he logged himself online to learn all he could about Viggo Mortensen.

If Viggo had been somewhat impressed with Orlando's book, Orlando was most certainly impressed with the images he found of Viggo's works online. It seemed that not only did he take photographs, but he painted, also, and was known to write poetry, too. He was a very thoughtful person, but also rather outspoken about the issues he believed in.

One particular photograph caught his stare, and he spent very long moments gazing at the picture of a man with a duffel bag in one hand and a briefcase in another, the man with his back turned to the camera which captured the view that the man faced; all bright lights, blurred and twisted, a cacophony of colours.

This was the essence of the book he'd written. Orlando shook his head slowly as if to rouse himself off a trance. He kept clicking, and found the photographs of horses he'd expected (the way Viggo had spoken of his horses had revealed a great deal of how important they were to him), also a picture titled 'Henry' of a blurred, boy shaped figure that shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun (this Orlando assumed was Viggo's son).

He went snooping, too, thinking that he could perhaps find some gossip of who Viggo had dated previously. He found one picture of Viggo with Maria (the picture seemed to have been taken at an art exhibition, judging from the art pieces and paintings that surrounded them), and this time the flare of jealousy was surprisingly strong. As if he had any claim to Viggo. As if he had any right to begrudge Maria any past happiness she might have had with this man.

Orlando couldn't deny that he was now more intrigued than ever. How did Viggo manage to live such a low-key life, since even he, who was no great critic could tell that Viggo's works were of outstanding quality? That was something he would have to ask Viggo the next time Viggo called.

Orlando logged off and made himself a cup of tea, thinking to himself. It wasn't until he was getting ready to bed that he realised how he'd already taken for granted that Viggo would call him again.

He just felt it.

And maybe it was time to do something other than sit around and wait for that call. He wasn't typically a go-getter, but something told him that this time he would have to take the initiative, for better or for worse.

If only he knew how Viggo felt, or if he indeed felt anything. If only, if only. Orlando chewed on his thumbnail, and stared at the screen, undecided and unsure.

~*~*~

“So, what can I do for you, doll?”

Maria didn't quite sound mocking, but Orlando supposed he would have deserved that even if she did. He'd stressed that he wouldn't be available, and now, just a week later, he was ringing her up and asking for favours. At ten pm, at that.

“It's Viggo,” he said simply, and just the mention of his name made his stomach do somersaults.

“What about him?”

All right, so she wasn't going to make this easy on him.

“I need to know why you two weren't each other's type,” Orlando said.

Maria sighed. “Doll... that's not something I can divulge. Even if it didn't work out between us, Viggo is still a friend, and I wouldn't want to compromise his privacy. Why do you need to know?”

Orlando rubbed at the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. Maria would soon guess that he was pining after Viggo, and would probably poke fun. Orlando 'Hermit' Bloom falling for the straight bloke, what a joke.

“We've been talking,” he said. “Viggo called me after he got my number from you. He called last night too.”

“He said he needed to apologize,” Maria said, perfectly deadpan, and didn't offer anything else.

“Yes, and he did. But we've been talking about other stuff too. I've... I don't know, I feel that I've opened up to him like I haven't done in years, with anyone. Not even Eric, I think.”

Maria was surprised; Orlando could hear the small sound of drawn breath. “Really?”

“Yes, really, and I thought... Hell, I thought that if there's any chance that he might be into blokes, too, and not just women, I should probably give this a shot because I can't imagine letting him slip through my fingers without even trying.”

Orlando realised he was making a speech and stopped. It was all true, however, and so he didn't try and take it back. Maria was silent for a moment before speaking.

“If you think there's something there, then you should see where it goes. I'm saying this as your friend, and Viggo's friend.” She hesitated before adding, “In all the time that I've known him, Viggo has never asked me any favors before now. It was really important for him to get to talk to you. So that's something for you to consider.”

“Thanks, love,” he said, and then added, “I might make a detour before coming home. But I'll see you on Thursday at the very latest.”

“Alright, take care,” she said. “And Orlando?”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

She had just gone back to watching the movie which Orlando's call had interrupted, when the phone rang again. It was Orlando, again, sounding rather sheepish.

“Do you happen to know just where in Idaho Viggo's ranch is?”

to be concluded in part two