Fic-a-thon Fic: Eyes Wide Open/Your Heart Torn Apart

Author: Crimsonsenya

Pairing: VO

For: Bkm5191

Rating: NC-17

Genre: angsty-romance

Scenario: wordless communication or being in love with two people at the same time

Squicks: what you don't want to see: fisting, B&D just no thanks

A/N: Unbetaed. My attempt to both meet the requirements and to write a Viggorli-centric fic.

Disclaimer: A piece of fiction and dirty imagination. No harm intended.

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My experience of meeting Orli was almost ridiculously banal compared to Orli and I witnessing Viggo slash his sword against the Ringwraiths in his full Aragorn mode for the first time. “I know who you are. I’m Orli. I play the Elf,” Orli said to me, his introductions always sounded like the world’s fastest shortcut in becoming best friends, and he usually started treating everybody as such with an astoundingly gullible sweetness. I was told later that Orli was already twenty-two, but he looked more like eighteen in his baby blue tee and grey sweatpants, his spiky curly hair pointing at all directions; when he shaved his hair into a Mohawk, he looked even younger. At first, I didn’t think Orli was hot or even good-looking. In contrast to his lanky frame and thin wiry limbs, everything in his face seemed big, the nose, the ears, the chin, the eyes. His features as well as his body were in constant motion, as his expression and his posture shifted along his animated words, which gave him a very skittish and restless air that didn’t invite concentrating on him for any long period of time.

If Orli had only been an over-eager, clumsy puppy dog, I probably would have never paid interest in him. But underneath the sweet surface, there was a tad of secret pain that manifested itself as brief moments of quiet melancholy between bouts of sudden moves and flashing, hyperactive outbursts. This secret place of his intrigued me to no end, and somehow, I soon fell for his endearing charm. Whenever we went drinking, after three beers he turned into the most fervent touchy-feely guy I had ever known. Orli wrapped his arm around my shoulders, while pressing wet kisses in my hair and face, gazing at me deep with his tender, sparking eyes. After the fifth beer, if we were standing the least bit apart from the others, Orli usually jumped me and rubbed himself against me in a way that could only be interpreted as seductive. As hot as Orli’s ministrations were, I wanted to be a decent guy, and therefore, I never took advantage of his drunkenness. Much later, when I had completely lost my chance on Orli, I thought maybe I should have gotten my wicked way with him –as he would have desired– when I still had the possibility.

All in all, the day we met Viggo for the first time was far more significant for both of us. Full of suspicion, we sneaked into the set to check out the new guy, and I watched as Orli’s face flickered from a doubtful pout to an expression of disbelieving admiration at the sight of our sweaty, tangle-haired, leather-covered Aragorn. After the last shot, Orli almost bounced Viggo, whose eyes still glittered with the fierceness of his character. “I’m your elf!” he exclaimed. For a moment, it seemed Orli was shouting to Viggo from a parallel dimension, but then, abruptly, we got our first glimpse of Viggo’s wrinkled, toothy grin, and Viggo got his first handful of a blissful Elfboy.

Very soon after his arriving, it became obvious that people were drawn to Viggo, even if the man himself seemed completely oblivious and not especially encouraging the attention. He made my heart beat faster. Let’s face it; he was sexy as hell and madly beguiling. When he talked to you, it was like being sucked into a most pleasant vortex, which feeling you ended up craving over and over again as if you were an insatiable junkie. While in crowd, he was intensely playful, wild and naughtily flirtatious with both men and women. When he trained he was so persistent that I swear half of the stuntmen had the hots for him. Yet, Viggo withdrew into solitude more often than he sought company. Viggo bonded with his horses, and he had his art. At times, he shielded himself with a wall of silence and self-sufficient contemplation even to the point of appearing cold and indifferent; still, the paradoxes he liked to throw at people became running witticisms on set. Nothing is more fascinating than an impenetrable, enigmatic mystery, and as much as I too wanted Viggo, the most susceptible to the lure seemed to be Orlando. Even if Viggo was amused and flattered by Orlando’s eagerness, he was sometimes quite frustrated. Nobody failed to notice Orlando was zealously jealous of him, and if Viggo was in the room everybody else vanished from Orlando’s line of vision. He would prattle about Viggo this and Viggo that, and most of his sentences began with “Viggo said…” or “A friend of mine said…” But yet, very soon, Viggo and Orlando formed their own magical sphere with their jokes and gestures, excluding all the others, whenever they paid attention to each other. They were an odd duo, but somehow, they vibrated on the same wavelength.

During the whole shoot, Viggo seemed to wander around in some mystical, quasi-shamanistic state of creativity and inspiration. It was the nature of the islands; the place did odd things to us, spellbinding both the cast and the crew in a space between two blending realities, the turn of the millennia and Middle-Earth, where everything was possible and everything happened. Friendships were born, people fell in love, and people fell apart. It wasn’t always so easy to separate the story and the characters we played from what we truly were. Maybe, we were all a bit crazy. Viggo was Aragorn, and Aragorn was Viggo, and everybody followed the king, and the Great Dane was as reluctant to lead as Strider, and wherever the King of Men went the Elf Prince would follow. We made so many gay jokes about Frodo and Sam, but the interaction of Viggo and Orlando, whenever they talked about their characters, was so laden with two-minded undertones it made my skin tingle unpleasantly.

In the interviews, we have often mentioned the childish pranks we pulled on each other; the duct tape and the shaving foam were the most famous ones… Viggo liked to tease. He could appear behind your back out of the blue and pour cold soda beneath your t-shirt or suck-bite your neck, leaving you with an embarrassing hickey. The idiotic shenanigan of dragging Orlando out of his hotel bedroom in the middle of the night for a humiliating stomach slapping had been Viggo’s drunken master plan. We were rowdy and totally pissed, when we pinned Orlando down and watched as he got his belly spanked by Viggo, who was straddling him in a parody of mounting. My gaze was fixed at Orlando, whose eyes were rapt on Viggo. Even through the haze of beer and tequila, I realized how hurt Orlando looked. Tears rimmed his eyes, and he inhaled sharply every time Viggo’s palm hit him. The air in the room electrified, and we all could sense the shift in the atmosphere from raucous to acutely erotic, as Viggo’s hands slid up to pinch Orlando’s nipples. My fingers around Orlando’s wrists seared me, when I felt the quickening of his pulse. His body arched abruptly, and he let out a small moan that made all my blood rush down to my crotch. The small noise seemed to sober Viggo up in an instant, because his hands paused. There was a brief awkward moment, when the others and I retreated quietly, just to continue the bragging and search for more drinks. I looked in askance at them though, and I saw the moment Viggo realized how complex Orlando’s feelings for him were, even if our dear yet light-headed friend didn’t have a clue about what was happening to his heart and brains. Since the incident, Viggo’s behaviour towards him changed. Though Orlando didn’t notice it, to me it was obvious. Viggo was more cautious. He avoided Orlando more often, but when they were together he was much more focused solely on him, and Orlando was ecstatic as ever to have captured Viggo’s full attention.

What was my relationship with Viggo? I could tell he didn’t mind the sex of the person he bedded. Not even the certainty of being a kamikaze pilot preparing for his mission could stop me from trying to get to him. I was way too hooked. The surer I became that he liked me more than many others, the more determinate I became. Knowing well I was the complete opposite of Orlando, I took advantage of the fact in every opportunity. Viggo was a very physical guy. When he talked to you, he would often touch you, rest his hand on your shoulder or the small of your back. Whenever he came close to me I shivered, because he had an incredible aura of bodily warmth and strength, mixed with the smell of leather and the ocean fragrance of his after-shave, that wrapped around me like siren’s song.

Sometimes, Viggo invited me to tag along on his photographic escapades. “Your company is very soothing,” he said to me, as he noticed my stunned look, when he invited me the fourth time. Damn, that he didn’t get lost with me! We walked in the forest and on the fields, and if I saw something noteworthy, I called at him to take a look. Later, I usually followed him at his basement to develop pictures, and I wish I hadn’t, because I found out who was Viggo’s true muse. There were loads of photographs of all the cast members, including me, but the ones of Orlando were taken with such an intimate, loving care it chilled me. He was so beautiful, seen through the eyes of Viggo. I stared at the picture of Orlando’s shorn skull, the terrifyingly long eyelashes, the elfin ear, the perfect cheekbone, and I wanted to cry and scream and touch Orlando, all at the same time. There was no doubt Viggo was in love with him too, and the emotion was tearing him apart in its unpredictable impossibility. It must have been a bitter realization for him to loose his heart to a twenty-something man child, segued with a sense of entrapment; his love for Orlando wasn’t smart nor rational, it was cynical and wild, very frightening in its intensity. We talked about marriage with Viggo one photography evening, and Viggo mentioned the swans that mate for life. “Love is like lethal freefalling, yet it’s too sweet to pass,” I said. “I like the sound of that,” Viggo smiled at me.

I honestly believed I at least had a shot at getting laid with Viggo –being a consolation prize for him didn’t really bother me– because I was sure Viggo wouldn’t make any moves on Orlando as long as the poor lad had no idea what he felt for Viggo was also pure physical lust. But why did I have to become Orli’s prime confidant in all things Viggo? Why did I have to be such a good friend to both? Why did I have to be a bloody masochist?

One afternoon we went to the beach together. Orli lay on the sand spread-eagled, moving his legs and arms in what would have made a snow angel in the winter. I watched lazily from the corner of my eye the flapping of Orli’s shorts and the rippling of his bare rib cage.

“Have you… Have you ever fancied another bloke?” Orli asked me, peering at the two puffy clouds on the azure sky. Beer had been involved once more. I rolled on my side before replying.

“Sure, I have.” Orli’s head turned to me swiftly.

“I mean, have you ever wanted to shag someone, without caring he was a guy?” Orli asked me again.

“Sex doesn’t really matter, does it? Cocks don’t exactly care what brings them off, do they?” My attempted joke was pretty lame. Why was I encouraging him? I simply loved him too much not to.

“You think Viggo would ever fuck me?” Orli’s eyes were half-shut and his mouth half-open.

“In a heartbeat,” I thought, my mouth was dry and my lips chapped from the salt and the sun.

Orli’s fingers were splayed on his stomach, brushing lightly over the spot where his sun was, and I remembered Viggo’s moon. Two weeks after we met Viggo for the first time, we saw the tattoo on Viggo’s hip at the costume fitting. Orli squealed and dropped his pants down to his ankles.

“Look, look!” He yelled joyfully, pointing at his stomach, and Viggo gawked with glee at Orli’s wacky green-white-yellow briefs that looked like the Brazilian flag stretched around his hips. The tattoo thing was a silly coincidence, of course, but now, as we lay on the beach, me listening to Orlando fantasizing, it felt as another cruel joke of the fate, mocking my hopeless lust for both of them. They were destined together, as stupid as it sounded, though even I wasn’t so blinded by my own disappointment to believe that Viggo and Orli could have ever happened if it hadn’t been for the shooting of these films. The peevish thought gave me a bit of comfort, and I still clung to my hopes.

It wasn’t long afterwards when Orlando called me to meet me at The Chocolate Fish, a café in Seatoun that faced the waters of Karaka Bay. It had both delicious ice cream and great staff. We went there rather often –they served breakfast all day, and that came in handy those days we were hung over after partying. Orlando sounded breathless on the phone. He was extremely excited, mumbling his words so fast I almost couldn’t make out what he said. It was rather late in the evening when Orlando came around. I still had a half full bowl of melted ice cream on the table before me when he arrived. The ice cream was good, but today I didn’t feel like eating, and the chocolate sauce stuck in my throat, making me cough. I knew something had happened; I could tell the same instant I met Orlando on set the day after his trip to the forest. It had now been three days since he and Viggo got ‘lost’. Neither of us others believed they had truly been lost, no matter how many reports Orlando gave us about how afraid he had been. As always, Viggo hadn’t said much.

Orlando sauntered in through the wide open door and greeted the girl behind the counter. I watched him as he ordered. He was wearing a pair of his usual low-hung jeans, and the hem of his tee had been tucked inside the waistband only at the front. He bounced to me and sat down, smiling at me, one of those dazed looks in his eyes that pierced my heart with pain, knowing that the dreaminess in them would never be because of me. I’m sure we talked about a lot things while he ate his ice cream, but I can’t remember. What he told me a little later wiped away everything else from my mind. He sucked at his spoon long after he had finished his ice cream. Then, he started talking about what I had known would happen sooner or later. Orlando wiggled on his chair and wrinkled the paper napkin. I couldn’t tell if it was the pain in the back or his apparent joy that made him antsy today.

“When I came back to set in the night, it was really late, and all my clothes were wet still,” Orlando said. His eyes shone, he was boiling over with enthusiasm. I was struck by a sense of sudden vertigo and dread. “We went straight from the car to make up, there was no time to go home in between, you know. The day was an ordinary working day… and not!” Orlando smirked. “We circled around each other all day. Did not talk at all. I took a taxi home. It was really late, morning almost. Four-ish… I got in the shower but went out twice to call him, left the bathroom, had water splashing down all over the floor. He didn’t answer though.” His voice trailed off, and I prodded him, trying to sound casual and to make out what he was explaining to me,

“You called Viggo?”

Orlando nodded. Getting even more energetic, he leaned his elbows on the table.

“Something happened that night, man. Something happened when we got lost.”

“Why did you call him?” I asked, even if I knew. Something had happened long before they spent the night in that rain forest, and it was a wonder of the proportions of the Great Wall of China that Orlando didn’t understand it himself.

“I wanted him to come over!” Orlando was beaming. “There was a voice in my head or something, telling me to call him. I wanted to see him. He didn’t answer. I messed around the room for a while after the shower, hanging my clothes up, trying to get stuff together. I called him again, and right when I hung up I heard him knock on the window.”

Orlando’s apartment was on the ground floor of a white wooden house; the fastest and safest way to access it late at night was to cross the lawn and use the window. I knew that well; I had knocked on Orlando’s window a few times. How did Viggo know? He must have heard us talking about it.

“Viggo?” I asked, another utterly pointless, rhetorical question. Orlando nodded and grinned.

“There I was, in a pair of briefs. The last set my mum bought, the yellow and green ones. Oh my god, those briefs!” He covered his face with his hands, enjoying himself; his breathing was deep with a happily whining sound to it. I looked over my shoulder grateful the place was not crowded. “And Viggo… he just looked at me when I pushed the window open. He stroke his jaw like that, slowly like he always does…” Orlando showed me, his hand running over his face. I knew that gesture too, even without the exhibition. Go on, I thought, prolong it, you fucker! Torture me.

“The house felt so lonely,” Viggo said, and I told him to come in. We were all over each other the second he landed on the floor.”

Now Orlando hesitated slightly, going silent. I saw something pass over his forehead, a private thought, which intimacy I wasn’t allowed to touch. But I was certain it went along the line of I am falling in love with Viggo, though it would have been surprising the realization would have finally dawned to Orlando. I was getting hot where I sat, even before Orlando told me the rest of what had happened. I could see it all way too vividly in my head.

“I don’t know what felt so right,” said Orlando, eventually. “Him kissing me, or just him being there. But he was on his knees before me; he pulled at the waistband of those stupid briefs. He said, “Could I taste you?” I said nothing in return… He sucked me.”

Orlando’s gaze glided over my face, and he captured my eyes with his, as if wanting to see whether I approved of him doing it with Viggo, not of him telling to me. Orlando had heard others share many stories like these; he knew it was ok. He must have seen the pain in my eyes, even if I pictured my face as a grimacing carnival mask. Nobody would know me. I was just the insanely joyous clown. What else could I do? I did not approve of him doing it with Viggo. I didn’t approve of Viggo doing it with him. I wanted to do him, and I wanted to do Viggo, but I was a condemned bastard who was about to get his limbs torn off by four donkeys pulling the ties that were holding him. And I wished I could have ripped him apart instead, or maybe both of them. Yet, I needed to hear this, and surely, I couldn’t show him how my jealousy was killing me.

“His mouth sort of squeezed the head of my dick. He only messed with my head. I held his hair; my knees were wobbly. I thought I was going to come right away. He sort of chewed on my dick, it was so weird, but I wanted him to go on. The window was still open.” Orlando went silent again, and I got angry. Why didn’t he tell me everything?

“He sucked you!” I said goofily, trying to cheer myself up, not him. Orlando shook his head like he had lost some of his gusto. Perhaps, he regretted telling me. No, he didn’t. He was so lost in his thoughts I could have gone to pick more ice cream and skip a jingle butt naked on my way, and he wouldn’t have even flinched.

“He did, shit, but… I didn’t come until later. He wouldn’t let me. He… we both wanted to fuck. I know I asked you if he would do me, but he’s so much older. His body is older, his skin… but I mean he’s not that old, is he?” I suppressed an impulse to say way too old for you, but I shook my head violently instead.

“He’s cool,” I said. A bit of an understatement as I was sure most of the guys who had ever gotten to know Viggo had been in a point too where they wouldn’t have said no to him kissing them, or even fucking them. Orlando gestured wildly.

“He grabbed me, held me like we were going to dance. My dick was hanging out of the briefs. I tried to take them off, but he said keep them on and put the fucker back inside, like he was putting it to sleep! He patted it like it was a pet. I had bolts electrocuting me, everything he did shot straight through me. We were going to fuck, right there. He--“

Now, I interrupted him, as an overwhelming need for knowledge invaded me.

“How did you come to that, you were going to fuck. Come on, you must have talked about it before!”

“No! But he told me then. He said, “I want to have sex with you”. It was a perfect imitation –at least the perfect imitation of how I heard Viggo saying that line in my head. To show me how well he could imitate the man’s real voice, Orlando said it again.

“I want to have sex with you. I thought, yes, sir, go ahead!” Orlando laughed. He sucked at the spoon again. His eyes hadn’t met mine for a while now. I so wished I could say to myself that he was nervous, that he felt awkward, that he regretted at least a little bit of it, but he didn’t, and I knew I was doomed.

While he told me the story, I saw that he was reliving it all, rewind and fast-forward, probably for the hundredth time, and I realized he was surprised over how good it felt to recall the night. Orlando, you bloody idiot... You have been in love with him since you first met him!

“It hurt, surely. He is not very prissy…” Orlando searched my face again. “But I enjoyed it. And what more…”

“Come on!” I cried. “Skipping the best part?” I simply had –or not– to hear more. Just to twist the knife in my gut, I nudged on his suntanned arm. “Details, please.” My voice was dry, and it sounded terribly distant to me. Orlando seemed truly reluctant for a while. He rubbed his shoulder, pinched his ear, negotiating with himself no doubt. But soon, he regained his big mirthful smile. Now, he had the good taste of leaning closer over the table and lowering his voice.

“Do you know our save-your-ass-from-pain-when-riding-all-day secret?” he asked in a conspirational tone. I shook my head; I had absolutely no idea. “The bikers in Tour de France do it. You lubricate your biking shorts with something not to get the skin on your behind sore. Or rather… You lubricate your behind and thighs with it so you won’t get the sitting flesh sore!”

“Like with…” I said. Orlando nodded eagerly.

“Like with petroleum jelly. It’s true! Ask any biker. Or ask Legolas or Aragorn or Gimli!”

He spun his spoon on the table. I glanced out at the sunny beach that spread right outside the windows. There were lots of families swimming and stylish thirty-somethings drinking beer after work on the wide strip of sand. How I wished I were one of them, or one of the staff of this café- anyone but myself right now.

“Ok…?”

“Vaseline. Vaseline…” Orlando drifted off again. However, it all came in one go, before I had to encourage him. Just like their sex had been –all in one go. “It was in my bathroom cabinet, I got it for us. I was leaning over the desk where I make phone calls to my mother. He must have had a handful of it and… he stuck his hand in my briefs and rubbed it in –all over my arse.” We both snorted and laughed. Orlando’s seemed sincere. “It was sticky, cool, sexy. He stripped while he rubbed my cheeks full of Vaseline. I don’t know how he did it. But he did not remove my briefs… he put a hand in the small of my back and pressed me down a bit, so he got a better... So he could fuck me better. He even asked, “Does your back hurt? I will be careful”. And he never took my underwear off, just pulled the fabric of these silly briefs to the side and took me like that. I wish I could have seen it like he could.”

“Was he wearing any underwear?” I asked. It was a thing we had discussed –did Viggo use underwear or not, as he went commando in his Aragorn costume– and I needed a bit of distraction from the images Orlando fed me. Amazingly, my voice didn’t crack.

“I don’t know,” Orlando replied. “He was just wearing nothing suddenly. He played with the head right between my buttocks. It was cool like… cool... It drove me mad. Yet, I wheezed when he pressed it in- I will never get used to it!” Orlando’s eyes rolled; he scanned the ceiling, the other customers, the tabletop, everything in the room but me. “He didn’t hurt me once he was inside. He did me really hard. I was going mad; I wanted him to go on and on, my back hurt though. I didn’t want to tell him because I didn’t want him to stop. But it hurt a lot, when he stopped being careful and slammed me against the table, I almost cried out from the pain in my back. My thighs were blue the next day.” Orlando smiled rubbing his nose. He seemed a bit embarrassed now. “I was all soft after the sex, it hurt so much. But I was hot for him; I was so hot for him, and he said all these things… He sucked me more and told me to jerk off so he could watch. I sat in bed afterwards, and he lay stretched out watching me when I did myself.”

It was too much for me. I simply run away from the café. I muttered something about doing my laundry, and I left him in his thoughts. Instead of going home, I walked on the beach for a long time. It hurt. The burning sand between my toes, the brittle glimmer of the sun on the waves, the sky that was too blue and lonely, and the thousand bloodied gashes on the raw flesh of my heart. On my way to the apartment, I went by the liquor store, and later, I downed half of the vodka bottle in a vane attempt to knock myself out to bed. My sleep was filled with convoluted, haunting dreams. Orlando met Viggo for the first time in a boat that had taken off from the shore, and I stood watching helplessly on the quay, calling out their names until my throat went sore. In a nightclub, I was dancing with a shirtless Orlando, who spun so fast my grasp slipped from his sweaty, glistening skin. Viggo head butted me, and his mouth hovered over mine, closing in to touch me, but Orlando leaped on his back, and they galloped away together. But then, they were roaming in the dark, alluring rain forest, both naked and wet from the droplets that slid down the long sharp-edged leaves that arched above them as if in some intoxicating temple of lust. Viggo embraced Orlando and lay him down like an offering. And Orlando spread his limbs, as he did on the beach that time, and the vines grew from the ground and twined around him in an obsolete caress, the same way Orlando’s fingers twined in Viggo’s long hair, pulling him close. Viggo moved over Orlando on all fours with an animal grace, and suddenly, I was both Viggo and Orlando, both fucking and penetrated, both bruising and bruised. My pelvis was on fire like never before, and love, desire, hurt and desperation got so tangled up and befuddled that I woke up with sticky briefs glued to my skin. For the rest of the night, I lay on my bed, eyes wide open, dirty and cold, but I didn’t want to shower, because the rivulets of water running down my face would have felt too much like tears.