Viggo almost doesn't realize what he's doing until all his bags are packed and his truck is ensconced in the extended stay parking garage at LAX. By then it's too late to change his mind, and Viggo thinks it's about time. It's only been a week since Orlando's last birthday but Viggo has already had enough of shutting up. He's tired of sealing Orlando's lips with imagined kisses. He wants the real thing, there and willing. He wants to touch Orlando's face and for them to both acknowledge that that is what this
is - The Real Thing
- and he really wants Orlando to want it, too.
It's a long shot, but Viggo's willing to go great distances for an off chance. He leaves LA and finds himself in Boston without a hotel reservation. Blank backs of postcards stare at him from the terminal gift shop so he picks one up, scribbles a note and sends it priority mail before checking into a Holiday Inn just outside the city proper.
He books another flight for early the next day. It's easy, unconscious, he goes through the motions; call Exene and ask her to hold onto Henry for another weekend, buy some basic toiletries he forgot at home, dream the geography between them away and wake up in time for his next flight.
He has to sneak through customs with a cap pulled low over his face. It's more of a beanie, actually. In fact, it's definitely a beanie. Orlando's beanie, or one of them. Dom had stolen it from Orlando and Viggo had stolen it from the sneaky bastard in turn.
So now he's sitting in the last row of first class with Orlando's lost beanie pressing bristly hair uncomfortably against his skull. So now he's listening to emergency safety procedures and watching scorched white tar slip by, drop away, disappear. So now he's flying to Spain, and Orlando's only clue will be the postcard Viggo sent yesterday. He doesn't know if it will beat him or not, if he'll show up on Orlando's doorstep before his words do, and he doesn't know that it matters. He likes the idea of racing himself, because either way he wins.
Either way he's getting there.
The phone rings eight times before Orlando hangs up, telling himself it doesn't mean anything, nothing more than Viggo's not at home. He has been known to vary his routine, after all. He went on a taco run, maybe, or stayed late at the barn where he keeps the horses. Or got stuck in traffic in Santa Monica coming back from the office, or is still at the office, or is mowing the lawn, um, in the dark. Um. Christ.
He chucks his towel in the general direction of the bathroom door, shimmies into his stripey pyjamas and slides into bed. It'd turned cold in the night, and he forgot to close the shutters before leaving for the set; now his breath makes whispery clouds and the hairs on his arms stand on end.
Orlando's hand drifts toward the telephone again, and he snatches it back just before his fingers touch the receiver. Behaving like a kid, mate, that won't do. He's got all day, really, they've got Tuesday and Wednesday off, early parole for good behaviour, a break before they start a killing schedule of location shooting at some castle two hours across the desert. He can nap, call Viggo again in a little while. This is no crisis.
He falls into a dream of a cat chasing its tail; the dream shifts and he's trying to get the cat out of the tree, standing on an overturned bucket and begging the cat to come down. It licks its paws, unconcerned, and climbs higher and higher out of reach. The cat is skinny and black; he's sure that if he doesn't get it down it will die up there.
When he wakes it's just after eight; there is a shaft of sunlight tickling his nose that smells like dust and oranges. He rolls toward the phone, toward the unblinking message light, and the déjà vu makes his head spin. It's eleven pm in California.
This time he counts fourteen rings before hanging up.
He stares at the ceiling; it offers no answers and he pounds his fist on the mattress. Fucking irrational, yeah, stop panicking, get some more sleep. After all, it was just a few hours ago that he'd decided that he finally knew who he was and where he was and if the why of it all hadn't quite come clear, that was fine. It was all good, reasons didn't matter, all that mattered was, well. Yeah.
Orlando turns, presses his face into his pillows, pulls the covers up over his head and tries to push the fear away. Stop being such a fucking baby. Fear is for children.
As he drifts again toward sleep a voice, much too much like Viggo's, says that fear is also for people in love.
For all his burning desire to rise above his proclivity for fucking up affairs of the heart, Viggo arrives in Spain without much of a plan. He takes a downtrodden cab to the town Orlando always called from and spots the native set assistants and foreign extras without much difficulty. No introductions necessary, no explanations asked for, he simply listens in and figures out where to go.
The town is easy to navigate on foot. All roads lead to a few central buildings, but Viggo's careful about taking his time to skirt around the edges of buildings, check out the local digs and hang around inconspicuously. He's just another tourist, crew-member, gypsy, whatever. Just another would-be starfucker.
Viggo looks down at his dusty feet, toes off his sandals and flips them over his shoulder. He lets himself find Orlando's hotel and wanders around to the back door. It's a four star establishment, clearly aiming for five, but there are still chickens scratching at the pounded dirt floor of the open air staff kitchen. He's interrupted dinnertime, and a nervous young man spills some boiled rice on himself in his rush to take the guest around front. Viggo doesn't want to check in, though, so he flashes an American accent and is promptly brought to the attention of the night manager.
The night manager is an old man with small, crisp semicircles for eyes. His name tag reads Diego, and he knows exactly where Señor Bloom is, if this Señor is sure that he is a "very good friend, yes?"
Viggo is a very good friend, yes. He is spared the words that no doubt want to accompany Diego's grin when Room 224 calls for soup and biscuits. Diego turns away from Viggo and hunches over the phone, taking notes with one hand and signing "3," "0," "7," with the other.
Viggo takes the stairs to the third floor. The carpet is thick and cream white. Viggo looks regretfully at the black footprints behind him as he makes his way to the end of the hallway. He longs for hardwood floors or the wide outdoors.
He raises his hand and wishes he had thought ahead as he knocks three times on the right door.
Midmorning. A horn blares and tires screech somewhere below; someone shouting (¡Cabron! ¡Ay, vete a tomar por culo!) then again the sound of rubber spinning against the cobbles. The sun is mercilessly slapping Orlando in the face; when he rolls in the other direction, the phone and the clock tag-team him with their black plastic mockery. "Fuck off," he mutters (to the phone, the clock, the sun, and whoever over-starched his linens) and pulls a pillow over his head.
Self-pity gets you nowhere, and he knows this, just like he knows that he's taking this way too personally, okay, add self-absorbed to pathetic and throw in some paranoid… that about does it. He thought he'd come pretty far, in the last week, but the second Viggo's not available? He's…fucking… He's…
He's still a mess, is what he is.
Orlando wishes he could do introspection without turning into Morrissey on a bender, he wishes he could think rationally about his motivations and, and, like… why he feels like a day without Viggo is like a day without air.
He drifts again, this time the dream is dense with memory, with taste and touch from long ago.
A sweltering summer day, Viggo's fingers trailing through the sweat in the hollow of Orlando's collarbone. He licked one fingertip with a wicked gleam in his eye, and later, after they were caught in a sudden rain shower and after toweling off in Viggo's bathroom turned into getting off on his hallway floor, later, as Orlando floated on the edge of sleep, Viggo said "sometimes I think you taste like home."
He sits up with a start. The sheets are soaked with sweat; the room is intolerably hot. He shoves the covers back, gets up and throws open the shutters. Air. Air. He grips his elbows and shivers despite the heat. Christ. Get a grip on, mate. Shower. Get something to eat, get dressed, stop with the bloody teenage emo navel-gazing and ring the man tonight.
He is pillaging the bathroom for a clean when someone knocks at the door, three brisk but somehow hesitant raps and he knows that knock, and that's impossible. Orlando's vision goes all spotty and chartreuse coloured.
Careful, then, he pads barefoot to the door and peeks at the spyhole.
It's sodding motherfucking impossible.
His hands shake so badly that he can hardly get the chain off.
The pause before the door opens is almost as awful as the sight that greets him. Orlando's dark eyes are bruised with too much sleep or not enough, too dull and wet to belong to the bright boy Viggo knows. His thin lips are parted around some unspoken swear, his naked shoulders are thin and tense.
Viggo can't be sure, but he suspects that he might be the cause of such distress. It simultaneously shames and pleases him. He's such a bastard, but now it's obvious and impossible for either of them to deny.
Orlando needs him.
Viggo's voice is so heavy with hesitant happiness that he barely gets the words out. "Hello, kitty," he smiles softly, and holds his arms still by his side, hoping Orlando will fill them.
There is a part of Orlando that is deeply tempted to poke Viggo, hard, square in the chest to make sure that he's real, to make sure that he himself is real, that he hasn't got a fever or is drunk and hallucinating or then there was the time that Dom gave him some really bad party drugs and what the fuck, Bloom, say something, say something, do something but whatever you do, do not do anything hideously embarassing, do not blurt out anything stupid, or--
He steps forward and slowly, underwater dream slowly, grabs Viggo's arms just above the elbows, and when Viggo's hands come to rest, firm and steady and grounding and real, on Orlando's hips, he buries his face in the sweat-salty crease of Viggo's neck and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to that spot just there, just there.
Viggo shakes. Orlando's knees buckle. They hold each other up, against the door frame.
do not do not do not say anything stupid
He moves his lips against Viggo's skin.
END PART FIVE
THANKS to everyone who waited patiently and supported vociferously,
and thanks very very much to all the fans who sacrificed
countless goats to the lotrips cabal. you really make it happen, people.
as always, 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 again!!
- traveller and beccaming
EE!! The hiccup of "omg he's here" and Viggo's postcard, trying to racing himself there. So lovely.
This was so worth the wait.
By far the best Viggorli I've ever had the pleasure of reading. If it weren't for the comments that switch on and off, I wouldn't have guessed it was a collaborative effort- because everything just flows so smoothly.
Though, you each have your own style of writing; one for Viggo and the other Orlando... absolutely devastating how it all comes together in the end. You have your own special curling sort of syntax; it winds. I get caught up in the gentle twists and turns, the blunt dashes that break apart and put together your sentences, paragraphs, and chapters.
The post card was lovely, it made me stop, bite my lip and think, "what did he scribble out?"
I also love how Orlando's inner dialogue slips into the narrative. Or got stuck in traffic in Santa Monica coming back from the office, or is still at the office, or is mowing the lawn, um, in the dark. Um. Christ. Feels as if Viggo and Orlando are so very much part of their own story, sudden stream of conciousness.
And it's little details like this, It's a four star establishment, clearly aiming for five, but there are still chickens scratching at the pounded dirt floor of the open air staff kitchen. that really get me in the end.
You know how in theatre they tell you; never touch the curtain during a performance you're in, because it'll break the illusion for the audience? Well, I read a lot of fan fic, I write a lot of fan fic, and I am always watching the curtain sway, pushing it accidentally aside. There is none of that here.
Static curtain fan fic. Love it.
Well, as long as the curtain's static and not iron, I suppose it's okay. ;P
Oh, but in all seriousness, thank you so much for the more than lovely words and in-depth literary analysis. Cee and I are just mucking around, kicking each other in the pants to come up with something that might be sort of fun. I'm glad you've found such enjoyment in the product of our cluelessness.
And may I say that I quite like your Viggorlis, as well? Palpitations was very beautiful. I just have a weird paranoia about feedbacking authors in open entries for some reason and hadn't gotten to writing you an e-mail yet.
So, yes. Color me stupid and all the rest. You rock, you.
2004-03-27 06:55 am (UTC)
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I had almost given up hope for more. This is the best Viggorli series ever in the history of Internet time. Can't wait for still more...
the day is quiet and the sun is harsh, homogenic, much like i imagine it would be in spain through this.
i've been sitting here for a while, searching for coherency, but the gist of it is that i love this. orlando letting himself go, falling, only to be halted with a screeching nails-on-blackboard noise by the abrupt absence of what gives him his confidence (we all go through that; we all experience it). and viggo, insane, barefoot viggo, natural and spontaneous and familiar with everything, racing himself with his godawful scrawl. *chuckles*
you continuously amaze me, ladies.
you're the sweetest girl in the whole wide world, miss m. *beep*
omg, you guys, that was so sweet and perfect. So very much like Viggo to be spontaneous like thta, and then not even have an idea what he's going to do when he gets there. I love that Orlando got all worried and huffy when Viggo didn't pick up. I've done that a few times, too. I love how you captured and stayed in each man's voice, what I picture them sounding like in my head. I can see this happening. Reading this is like laying in silk sheets eating chocolate covered strawberries.
And, omgomg, that postcard was awesome. I want a postcard like that from Viggo.
oooohhh!!!! you guys are SO FABULOUSOMG!!! this is so so so liek. perfect, man. s. mans.
omg, incoherence, yes!
day say, i loved it.
i always never read this because i knew that it was in progress and therefore i would turn into a wretch after i read it, coming home every night and checking my flist frantically (omg is there more is there is there!?). and now that i've read it, yeah, i'm going to be obsessed.
it's seven-thirty-two in the evening which means Viggo's leaning against the kitchen counter eating condensed tomato soup cold out of the can. With a fork.
also that is brilliant because tonight i did eat condensed tomato soup from the can with a fork at my kitchen counter because i cannot cook and i didn't want to wash any spoons. and the only thing i really remember about boston is staying at a holiday inn that wasn't really in boston, per say.
so viggo slept in my holiday inn omg.
who said anything about end?
i require fried llamas.
So, yeah, this part here:
What if I- What if I- What if I-
He smooths his hands over his face, pushes his hair back and turns round again, lolling his head in a lazy circle. This feeling, this feeling is merely:
really really got me. And then it just got better. Youse guys rock.
many many thanks. ::asscones::
Yea!! New chapter!! Well worth the wait!! Another brilliant set of entries!!
Four-thirty-two in the morning means it's seven-thirty-two in the evening which means Viggo's leaning against the kitchen counter eating condensed tomato soup cold out of the can. With a fork.
I love you. I love BOTH of you. This is beyond anything I've read, especially since it's written by two different people whose styles blend so seamlessly with each other. The fact that your 'characters' are such 'real people' and aren't caught in clichés, etc (not that they would be with you two writing), gives me such a warm, full feeling.
omg waiting at the end of that scene is agony, ahh. /squee
This is the story that won me over to Vig/Orli. I love it - so beautifully and elegant and sensual and full of love and longing. Just the way I fantasize their relationship to be - and a happy ending besides. I hope that you will continue this marvelous story? I will send virtual flowers and chocolate and sacrifice an amount of goats.
Since I live in SF, I think that "you two" should have them marry. IN San Francisco. I'll be more than glad to give you lots of info on local color, cafes, street scenes, Whatever.
Standing by with eager (and probably foolish) smile on face.
namaste SF Nancy
I'm just read all of your chapters and I love each and every one of them! Really lovely idea handled beautifully.
You two are so glorious! You could not have timed this update better than to reward my brain for subjecting itself to 300+ pages of reading on the Pacific War. My brain thanks you and so do I. And oh man oh man, the beauty and the happiness. You know, I just had a totally shitty meeting with my ex-boyfriend and you guys STILL managed to make me smile at Orlando and Viggo's oh so unrealistic but god how you want it to happen to you encounter.
And this is how my brain sounds when it's happy but malfunctional, but suffice to say, THANKYOU. I love this serious and am so happy to see something new.
This entire series is so wonderful. The flow and timing are fabulous and I can't wait for more.
I love this series. LOVE it. Thank you so much for writing more!
you guys amaze me.
*sigh* so. fucking. good.
This isn't the end is it????? (>^_^)> there are more hugs in it for you if you continue ^_^ it's so amazing, it'd be a shame not to continue =oP!
no no, not the end.
thanks for reading. :)
I think I hurt my wrist when I clicked the link on the new installment, I've never done anything as fast in my life.
This was beautiful. The postcard (very original), Orlando's fear and disappointment for the unanswered calls, Viggo's 'Hello, kitty' greeting... loved it!!!
Just excellent. If every chapter is as great as this, I wouldn't mind waiting another two months (though I really hope it won't take that long).
I adore this story so much I want to shout it from the rooftops, I want to paint the url on my belly and run naked through the streets!!!
I'll try to be more coherent now. I think what I love best about all of this is that you both have written *people*. Not cliches, not fantasy men, but whole, rich, full characters.
Also, the little details that make it feel as though the reader is right there as it all happens. In this installment I think the tomato soup from the can and the dirty foot prints on the hotel carpet come to mind first. Fucking beautiful.
Hugs to you both for giving us such a wonderful place to go, and I really hope you are both having as much fun writing this are we are reading it.
I think what I love best about all of this is that you both have written *people*. Not cliches, not fantasy men, but whole, rich, full characters.
There. There. That's what I wanted to say.
That, and thank you. You remind me why I read fanfiction.
that's so kind. that's so lovely. thank you.
zen, you are my number one fan and a real friend and i love you. i love how you see the story and the guys and how you believe that i can pull this off. i am so happy that this makes you happy.
Can that be Official Number One Fan? :)
Cause I am, I really am.
And hey, thanks for the love, cause I've been extremely insecure lately, social anxiety crapola, and you made me feel full of the warm fuzzies.
I love you, too, behbeh.
if you found a fanclub i will totally kick your ass.
No, no fan clubs. If I had the official title I might put it on an icon or three. Or maybe just have it to toss around in conversation now and then, confuse or impress people.
In all seriousness, I admire and adore you, and your brain delights the puhjeezsus out of me.
This project makes me not breathe. As fic reactions go, that's a good thing. As living goes...not so much.
wow! that's strong! :) we are hard at work on the next chapter, so your encouragment comes at exactly the right time. thanks SO much and... keep breathing. *g*