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Friday (when the day is done) [Jan. 21st, 2004|05:36 pm]
not yet day


Four phone interviews, two instant meals, and one long shower later it is Friday afternoon, going on evening, and Viggo is taken aback by the near spontaneous passage of time. He sits in the backyard with a yellow box of American Spirits close at hand. Ankle high crabgrass tickles his bare toes and the sun starts to set with the speed of a chemical burn. Before he knows it he's back inside and looking for excuses to hang around the kitchen, waiting for what's sure to come all too soon.

It occurs to Viggo that he's becoming a recluse, the crazy old kook who lives at the end of the street and hangs around every kid's nightmares. He doesn't mean to be so sedentary, but he's searched for so long now only to find that like the joke about Jesus, what he's been looking for has been under his couch all along. Or in the kitchen, anyway. Okay, in Spain, actually, but easily reachable. Just within reach, so close, and if he doesn't get out now he may never want to leave.

The house. If he doesn't get out of the house.

Viggo lights another cigarette as he rises to amble around the yard one last time, then sits by the phone and taps his ashes against its pastel green shell. It looks like a cartoon turtle beached on red and white checkered linen.

Viggo doesn't bother opening the window this time. He's probably agonizing over what will be better for him the long run. Just don't bother none he thinks, and suddenly he can't figure out if he's been smiling all day or if he just started.

[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-22 03:20 am (UTC)
Try as he might, Orlando can not seem to get the smug grin off his face.

At six am, yeah, sure, he felt a little guilty and a lot embarrassed. But Viggo, being Viggo, just smoothed it over, talked him down, and by the time they hung up Orlando didn't feel quite so foolish, in fact felt better than ever about the whole... thing.

This thing, this... bloody stupid, fucking amazing thing. He's in too good a mood to try to name it.

He waves off his driver and walks to the set, stopping at a tobacconist's on the way - they don't have Vig's brand so he settles for ridiculously overpriced Marlboro's and has three before he even arrives. Ah, brilliant. Smoking, he reflects, stopping outside his trailer for a last one before makeup, is like sucking cock.

Something you never see yourself doing, something you don't plan for, but once you start, it's impossible to give it up.

A lot like this... thing.

The day flies by, Ridley and Liam both compliment Orli's good mood and his focus. At six they take an hour for dinner and then work through til ten; everything is going right, they're firing off the scenes, boom boom boom, and Orlando starts to think that Spain might not be so bad.

Back at the hotel the telephone sits leering at him, waggling metaphorical eyebrows; it's absurd that just picking it up has him half hard. He starts to dial, puts it down again. It's only just going two in L.A., and he realises he has no idea what Viggo's doing. Whatever it is, it surely isn't sitting waiting for Orlando to call.

Food, then, same meal as the night before, and he orders up a couple bottles of a saucy Shiraz that has Diego's recommendation. The wine is not just good, it's amazing, so after he showers he puts a woolly jumper on over his pyjama bottoms, takes the wine and his fags out on the balcony to look at the stars.

He swigs right out of the bottle, feels his grin returning. Feels rather a bit silly, in fact, and that feels really good.
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-22 04:04 am (UTC)
Viggo mows one half of the front lawn and waters the other half. He painstakingly cleans the lawn mower then leaves it outside where it's sure to rust. He make a quick run to the supermarket and buys several more TV dinners, then starts taking out the ingredients for homemade lasagna after he puts the slacker groceries away. Henry comes downstairs demanding a large cheese pizza, so Viggo dismantles his gourmet attempt and reluctantly surrenders the phone to his son, waiting anxiously nearby in case they get a call waiting beep.

"You're such a fifth grader!" Henry snorts. "The pizza'll be ready in twenty minutes. Want me to call Mom and ask if she can pick it up before she comes to get me?"


Viggo talks to Exene for ten minutes, takes a slice of drippy grease, and kisses Henry goodbye as messily as he can.

"Eew, Dad! Gross! I don't even want to come back on Monday now!"

"That's my boy!" Exene smirks, then takes a bite of Viggo's pizza slice just so she can kiss him with equally disgusting lips.

"Eew, Exene! Gross!" Viggo laughs.

She cuffs him fondly. Viggo watches the two of them drive off into the sunset, then returns to the pastel green sea turtle phone. It's already six and the plastic beast has not yet broken its silence.

Well, Viggo thinks, he'll show it who's boss.

The phone only rings eight times before Orlando picks up. "Viggo?" he asks, and he sounds tired but relatively aware.

Viggo is ridiculously pleased that Orlando's been expecting him.

"Feeling better, gatito, or was it something I said?"
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-22 04:54 am (UTC)
When it gets too cold on the balcony Orli makes a nest of pillows against his headboard and settles in with the second bottle of wine, keeps picking up the phone and putting it down. They're night shooting on Saturday, he doesn't have to be on set til about noon, but every time he does the math it still seems too early to call yet.

Orli fights to stay awake but eventually he dozes, has happy fuzzy wine-coloured dreams about surfing in a big bowl full of goldfish. Every time he wipes out the fish nibble at his toes until he gets back up again.

He hears a far off ringing that he doesn't immediately recognise; after a moment he struggles upward toward reality and snatches the phone off its cradle.


"Feeling better, gatito, or was it something I said?"

"Wha? Oh." Orli feels his cheeks flame. "I was going to call you, I meant to... I, I fell asleep." He punches a pillow, and it makes a petulant whuff. "I'm sorry... you were waiting for me?"

"Yeah," Viggo answers but he doesn't sound angry. The idea that Viggo actually waited for his call, anticipated it, wanted it... Fantastic. Orli's belly does a happy dance.

"Yeah," Viggo repeats, "you, you sounded upset this morning."

Orlando shakes his head, settles down in the pillows. "Actually, I've had a brilliant day. Best day in a long time, mate."

"Oh really?" Viggo's tone rolls smoothly from concern to amusement.

"Mm-hmm," Orlando answers, but he doesn't elaborate. "Gooood day."

"Comes of a good start, I s'pose," Viggo drawls.

"Mm-hmm." That smile is back, more smug than ever.
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-22 06:16 pm (UTC)
"So what was particularly great about your day?" Viggo asks, lighting another cig and leaning back in his chair, feet far up on the table so he can sight the phone down the length of his legs. "Did you talk to any cute girls on set?"

"No," Orlando says. "Not unless you count the child extras. Rather cute, children."

"I see. Well, did you talk to any cute girls off set?"

"No," Orlando says. "Don't get off the set much, and my makeup artist is a guy. Very talented, has a real light touch."

"Hmm. Got any hot dates planned, then?"

"No!" Orlando laughs. "Not with anyone who isn't a few thousand miles away."

"Interesting," Viggo says, smilingly serious. "Then it doesn't sound like you had a very good day at all! No cute girls, not cute guys, no wild nights. You probably just worked the whole time."

"Well," Orlando says. His tone is soft and fond, the type usually reserved for babies, the elderly, and domesticated animals. "You called."

Viggo's cheeks flush, so he holds his cigarette away from his face. The distance doesn't help to reduce the heat. "That's true," he admits, very pleased that Orlando noticed.

They are such fifth graders.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-22 10:09 pm (UTC)
Orlando knows this part, does it well, that silly flirty stuff that birds (and some blokes) love so much; he can be cute and teasing and sweet, and it's even better when it's natural like this, when it's not put on for the other person's benefit.

"Write anything... good today?" he asks, and the smoking's paid off, he's got a nice sexy grrrrowly thing happening that makes Viggo's breathing speed up a touch.

Orli switches the lamp on, finds he still has about six centimetres of wine in the bottle on his night table. Thank Christ red is good at room temperature. He snags it and takes a long swallow, brings it back to rest between his knees. "Well, cowboy??" he prompts.

"Orlando, gatito..." Viggo says, half-sexy and half-frustrated. "As much as I would love to... mmmpphm... again, don't you think we should, ah... talk? About it?"

"What does that mean, gatito, what is that?" Orlando asks, mangling the accent and dodging Viggo's suggestion. He knows that, yeah, they should talk, they should get it all out in the open before someone gets damaged, damaged more, but the fierce wanting from this morning is coiling in his belly again, poised to strike.

"It's you," Viggo says infuriatingly. "Listen, we should... 'cos it's not... I mean, it's just..."

Orlando throws himself back against the headboard, willing himself not to pout. The lamp rattles. The wine sloshes. He can't smoke in the room, and the phone cord won't reach the balcony doors. He's suddenly irritated. He just wants... wants so fucking much, and it's hard to tell, at three in the morning, what the right thing to do is.

"Viggo," he says, a little heatedly, a little petulantly. "What exactly would you like to talk about?" It's out before he can stop it.

Bloody fantastic. Now Viggo's going to think he's being a brat; what's worse is he'll be right.

There is silence for moment, then broken by the familiar sounds of a cigarette being lit. "I want to know," Viggo says in a tight voice, so tight it's ready to split open and bleed all over the floor, "if you really want to do this... with me... again. Or if you're just... marking time while you're lonely."

For a second, a heartbeat, it occurs to Orlando to be insulted. Hadn't he expressed his need the other night when he was drunk and depressed and angry? Hadn't he demonstrated that he wanted Viggo that morning when he'd gotten off on the mere sound of his voice? Following a breath behind, it occurs to Orlando that Viggo has always been remarkably intuitive when it came to everyone but Orlando, and that Viggo really does not know the answer to that question.

His mouth is suddenly very dry; he takes another drink. "Do you?" he asks quietly, seriously. "Because I do if you do."
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-23 01:20 pm (UTC)
"I do if you do," Orlando whispers.

Viggo thinks this is not a good idea, last time we got together it was nothing but silence between us, couldn't even fight like cats and dogs when the cold crept in, we were too beastly to do that, too animal and dumb. I'd ask What are you going to do today, Orlando? and he'd say Whatever you want. I'd ask What do you want for tomorrow, Orlando? and he'd talk about his plans for the next day, like that was what I meant, like that was all we had. But

I do if you do.

I can't help not caring about all the misunderstandings, I can't help how dark his eyes are even in midday, the way he can say nothing for hours, never manage to say what he means, then stand quietly next to me, make me feel awkward when I've always been assured of my words. I can't help

"Well," Viggo whispers back. "I do if you do."

hoping. Because maybe something has changed in the last three years. Maybe Viggo was right to assume that this is not just a continuation of where they faded off. Maybe the inexplicable has taken place.

Because maybe you've grown up.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-23 02:17 pm (UTC)
Orlando decides that he is a sodding movie star, and if he wants to smoke in a non-smoking room, he will bloody well do it, because the idea of concluding this conversation without a cigarette in his hey, that's weird shaking hand is laughable. He lights up, and his hands tremble even more.

"That's settled, then?" he husks. This seems to be the kind of talk one must have in whispers. He taps his ash into the now-empty wine bottle.

"I guess," Viggo answers, voice similarly low and scratchy. Orlando wonders what he is doing with his hands, what room he is in, what colour shirt he has on.

"I want to," Orlando admits softly. His heart is pounding, when did that happen? Outside, below, he hears a dog barking, hears a scooter hum by. "I want to, for me, not for... not because... I owe you, I do, but that's not why I want to. I want to because I want to."

Utterly incomprehensible, mate. Fantastic. He takes a long pull on his cigarette. Viggo is silent. Orlando's stomach clenches. Right, try to explain.

"Because it's stupid, right? It's like... Do you remember last fall? That night in the park? Like... that's what I want. I want that every night, not just once a year."

"You want to get shit-faced under a tree every night?" The humour in Viggo's voice is wrapped in a tenderness that makes Orli's hands shake even harder, makes him miss the mouth of the bottle. Ash falls onto the sheet. He licks his finger and rubs at it.

"Yeah," he says, and there is a smile trying to invade his mouth. Fine, then. He lets the last of his defences fall. "I want to feel that, that connected. To you."
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-23 03:18 pm (UTC)
"You want to feel connected," Viggo repeats, cigarette burning blankly on the edge of his lips, voice vacant but a pleased thrum propelling his words along. "To me? Are you sure? I mean, I'm not that good of a long term investment, I need a lot of alone time and I can be hard to get in touch with and I'm always distracted and-"

"Viggo!" Orlando cuts him off, really laughing now. "Vig, you silly cunt, of course I'm sure. Yes, I want to put up with you. Yes, I want to get shit-faced and kiss under stupid sodding trees with you."

Viggo cannot help himself. Very quietly and almost completely beneath his breath, he hums Orli and Viggo, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-, but Orlando hears him perfectly well.

"Oi!" He blurts, and then it's back to whispering, hushed tones between the two of them, tenuous but tender. "Am not. We are not. Not yet."

"You're right, I'm sorry," Viggo whispers back, not sorry at all, and he feels like they've kissed and made up already, his throat is that tight. And, well. His pants, too. But this is a tender moment, and they are both very grown up. "Would you like to hear that poem now, gatito? It's still not as good as I'd like, but."

I'd like to give it to you anyway.
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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-23 03:50 pm (UTC)
It is, without doubt, the most ridiculously romantic moment of his life, and Orlando is fairly certain that if he wasn't so very warm and sated by wine and sleep and that hitch in Viggo's voice, well... He'd probably be vomitting from the saccharine-sweetness of it all.

Viggo offers, haltingly, to give him his poem, and Orlando feels another mad rush of heat, not just to his cheeks this time. He dropped his cigarette, half-smoked, into the wine bottle and puts it aside; he snuggles into his cocoon of pillows and down.

"Yeah," he answers, "Yeah, I want it," and his hips give an involuntary little jerk when Viggo breathes back,

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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-23 05:11 pm (UTC)
Viggo leaves the phone for a moment - fucking corded beast! - to retrieve his poem from beneath the potted plant. It's a little soggy, fuck, he forgot to take it out before watering the indoor flowers this afternoon. But the scratched out, inked in words are still legible, so he starts without preamble once he picks up the phone again, not even asking if Orlando's still there.

He knows the poem isn't particularly happy, he knows it isn't sexy, but it's a hopeful message and he's pretty sure that came across. It's one of the many obscure (that's not what this is, is it?) letters that Viggo's scribbled on palm-sized scraps and kept to himself. These poems never make it into any books, are never titled or read out loud.

Viggo doesn't tell Orlando about all the other secret letters scattered around his house, hidden behind couches, under rugs, beneath potted plants, in plain sight. Viggo thinks fleetingly that after he dies, if he's still in that house - and he sure as fuck hopes not, he has cleaner and more wide open ambitions than that - if the house is torn down to make way for a parking lot or whatever else, all his letters would explode into the air before demolition could begin. With Viggo gone, there would be nothing to hold them down, pin them to silence, and the truth of what he felt and feels would spill free, just as fragments of the letters sometimes spilled into three-years-ago Orlando's ears as encouragement, unmeant endearments.

But Viggo reads this poem without any pretense, lets Orlando know in certain terms that it was meant for him, is for only him, and maybe that makes it sweet despite the subject. Because by the time he's done, Orlando's breath is almost louder than Viggo's own hushed recitation. Orlando's obviously suffering, but Viggo can't make it better the way he'd like to right now. He can't do right by Orlando from this far away, and any care he'd like to give is just going to have to wait.

He waited this long to read Orlando a (don't name it yet, don't give it a name) letter.

"I have to go now, gatito," Viggo says before he can change his mind. "You sleep well, okay? You make sure to have some good dreams for me."

He can wait a little longer. It will be all the better.
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[User Picture]From: _ming
2004-01-23 05:45 pm (UTC)
We'd love hear what you think, so if you'd like to leave
any feedback, please feel free to reply to this comment. Thanks!!
- traveller and beccaming
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[User Picture]From: beautysmuse
2004-01-23 06:03 pm (UTC)
"the sun starts to set with the speed of a chemical burn"

'I can't help
"Well," Viggo whispers back. "I do if you do."

Those are my two favorite parts. Especially the first one. The two of you write an incredible chemistry together, and I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to reply to the earlier two.

I love the way you make Orlando young but not stupid, like some Viggorli fics. I love that you two make Viggo mature but not lecherous. I love that you make this tentative, like they're nursing something broken.

Most of all, I love how real it is.
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[User Picture]From: slightlytricky
2004-01-23 06:34 pm (UTC)
oh. But, I want more right now.

Someone said it before, I'm going to echo it here - if you two wrote a book, I'd buy it in a sec. Just fantastic work, the both of you.

I have this image of Viggo's words, painted on white paper, exploding into the sky.
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[User Picture]From: bunnysquee
2004-01-23 08:48 pm (UTC)
Viggo dismantles his gourmet attempt and reluctantly surrenders the phone to his son, waiting anxiously nearby in case they get a call waiting beep.

"You're such a fifth grader!" Henry snorts.

this made me laugh my head off, because it's true, no matter how old you are, when you're in love, you act like you're 12!

"I want to know," Viggo says in a tight voice, so tight it's ready to split open and bleed all over the floor, "if you really want to do this... with me... again. Or if you're just... marking time while you're lonely."

and this tore my heart out and stomped on it into little pieces.

"Because it's stupid, right? It's like... Do you remember last fall? That night in the park? Like... that's what I want. I want that every night, not just once a year."

"You want to get shit-faced under a tree every night?" The humour in Viggo's voice is wrapped in a tenderness that makes Orli's hands shake even harder

and this is just way cute.

i am completely loving this story.
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[User Picture]From: lykaios
2004-01-23 10:19 pm (UTC)
note to self: read comment in its entirety before posting.

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[User Picture]From: traveller
2004-01-24 08:26 am (UTC)
This is my Favorite. Orli. Ever. Just.. all of him. Too much to explain.

nawww. you made me wibble. thank you so much. <3
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[User Picture]From: lykaios
2004-01-23 10:51 pm (UTC)
i think you've got the perfect balance of fluffy and angsty moments going here. usually i don't like it that sweet, but like i said, they're only moments, and the story is not overrun with them, and most importantly, you guys can actually write.

fucking corded beast! cracked me up.

sorry for all the comments. :/
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[User Picture]From: spillingvelvet
2004-01-23 10:53 pm (UTC)
oohhh!!! i loves, precioussessss!!!
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[User Picture]From: lebannen
2004-01-24 11:13 am (UTC)
omg hot I loved it ;)
Nothing coherent to say...
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[User Picture]From: lykaios
2004-01-23 05:50 pm (UTC)
i own a pin baring the jesus joke.

can't read the whole thing right now (i'm at my grandmother's house, so it's not exactly a safe environment. it feels like swearing in church). but i'm hugely looking forward to reading it tomorrow.

i bet you are so grateful that i keep you updated with things like that.
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[User Picture]From: soul_cake_duck
2004-01-24 05:30 am (UTC)
i would really like to put into words just how much i love this fic, but i cant. so i'll just have to settle for saying that this is just amazingly gorgeous. i love your viggo especially. and yeah. this is definetetly going in my memories if you dont mind.
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From: (Anonymous)
2004-01-24 06:22 am (UTC)
You two have really, really great writing abilities. Man... I love all the unconventional transitions and synecdoche and blah blah... the dialogue is so cool and casual too. And, it was hot.
Writing = great. {Possible critique: in my opinion it can get a little wordy, ie too many far-fetched metaphors. Occasionally pretentious. That's just my two cents of crit, since feedback that's not just "omg!! so kewl!!!11" is good.}

That being said, you know, I just still can't get my mind around RPS. My morals are shakey at best, but something about it pushes my buttons. I still really love this in and of itself-- and I almost think it's too bad that it has to be a RPS. You two have created new, orginal, interesting characters, since it's not like they're based on the real thing, since you don't know either Viggo Mortensen or Orlando Bloom. I wish you could claim full ownership of it, I don't know, and have it published or something.

--And I'm sorry if that sounded like a rant. I didn't post this comment to start an argument or pick at RPS, so don't feel like you have to defend yourself, because it's not an attack. I just wanted to give some feedback on something I enjoyed reading and will really really look forward to reading more.

Keep it up!

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[User Picture]From: sumbitch
2004-01-24 09:16 pm (UTC)
I just still can't get my mind around RPS. My morals are shakey at best, but something about it pushes my buttons

Dude, it's fine that you feel that way, but why are you spouting off about it here?

Picture this. You invite someone over to your house for dinner, saying "I'm a-gonna be roasting up a lovely goose, wanna come over?" And they do. And the meal is delicious, really one of the best you've ever made. And then all of a sudden your guest goes "OH MY GOD EATING MEAT IS WRONG AND REALLY BOTHERS ME WHY DIDN'T YOU COOK THIS LOVELY DINNER MEAT-FREE I LOVED THIS INCREDIBLE DINNER BUT IT'S JUST TOO BAD THAT IT HAD MEAT IN IT YOU ARE A REALLY GOOD COOK EVEN THOUGH YOU'RE OCCASIONALLY A LITTLE HEAVY WITH THE TARRAGON."

ya see what i'm driving at?
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From: (Anonymous)
2004-01-25 07:18 am (UTC)
Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I just wanted to give my comment some perspective, so you'd know who the critic was. Didn't mean to "spout off," and I'll certainly avoid it in the future.

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