Title: The First thing Viggo Did

Author: Robyn  (Rhodynne@aol.com

Pairing: V/O

Rating: I think I finally managed an R

Summary: Viggo isn’t saying what he thinks. Vig’s POV

Feedback: absolutely

Archive: CIB, let me know if you want it

Beta: Microsoft spell and grammar check, and a reread by yours truly.

Disclaimer: I know no one, nobody knows me, I’m ugly and my mother dresses me funny.

Author’s Note: This is a bit of a different style.  I’m too close to tell how it works in general. But, I gave it the ole’ college try.

 

The first thing Viggo did was fall in love.

He was being introduced to the cast, an activity that so far consisted of him being surrounded by people whose names he couldn’t quite remember.  At one point he did catch a glimpse of gangly limbs topped with a brown Mohawk; it was a pretty quick glimpse, though, and he was distracted by the presence of a Mohawk this far from a punk band.  But then the group of people parted a bit, and the ‘hawked boy was suddenly standing in front of him.

The softest, loveliest brown eyes looked out from delicate bone structure, a cupid’s bow mouth turned up into a beaming smile, and Viggo was done. Over. It was that simple.  Head over heels, truly madly deeply, balls to bones, heart and soul in love.

The next thing Viggo did was go to his new home and get drunk.

Not just really drunk, not even slobbering drunk, but piss-in-his-pants, wake-up-stuck-to-the-bathmat-with-vomit drunk. He was freaking scared out of his mind.  He’d flown most of the way around the world on a day’s notice, left his child, taken a job that would last a minimum of a year and a half, and he wasn’t even GAY!  Well, not only gay. Yet, here he was, in New Zealand of all places, forever in love with a child from England, a country where he had no plans to move.  As he, very slowly, made his way into the shower, he started to take some stock of recent events.

“I want to be in this movie”

“Okay”

“I miss my son, but he’s coming to visit”

“Okay”

“I want to take that beautiful boy and fuck him ‘til I pass out deaf from his screaming”

“Oh…”

“I love him; I’ll love him the rest of my life”

“…shit”

Viggo began to watch his boy. Orlando.  Viggo’s head kept repeating the name, his soul just seemed to sigh it constantly. Orrlllaandooo.

Orlando was all grace; a gentle gliding walk, and a subtle strong voice whenever he was dressed as the elf prince.  Strangely, Viggo didn’t like Legolas as much as everyone else seemed to.  Yes, of course, his love was gorgeous with the blond hair and blue eyes. But somehow, more removed; not the beaming, slightly clumsy object of his every waking thought. He watched Orlando during scenes, even if he was in the scene with him. He watched his love talk and laugh with the Hobbits, earnestly listen to Peter, and dance! Oh My Ever-Lovin’ God Orlando could dance. .  ‘I love you’, Viggo thought, every minute he spent watching.

Viggo began to talk to his boy. Partly just to be able to say his name out loud. “Orlando”.  Luckily, his love also seemed to want to talk to him.  Talking while being made up in the morning, talking while waiting for set ups, talking while taking make-up off, they learned everything about each other.  Except the one thing Viggo couldn’t say out loud. “I love you, Orlando”. Sitting together in the Cuntbago, drinking wine after a long day working, they’d talk about art.  Orlando was a sculptor, Viggo was pleased to learn. It meant he was free to talk about his own art.  Not that anything really kept Viggo from discussing painting and photography. Or writing, reading, politics, horses, sword play, Tolkien, mythology, psychology, religion, or the best way to adjust the brain to driving on the wrong side of the road.  Naturally, Orlando insisted it was the right way, and Viggo argued with him just for the pleasure of seeing the flush on his cheeks, hearing his voice get more excited.

Viggo began to use those sights and sounds in his nightly “wanking”.  Such a lovely word, wanking, Viggo thought hazily.  Sliding his hand up his length to cup the head, swirling the precome around and using it to gloss his erection, he moved his other hand down to rub his balls, gently rolling them between his fingers. 

Orlando is on his knees, sitting up facing out and impaled on Viggo’s cock.  He’s screaming Viggo’s name, interspersed with an occasional “fuck”, “Oh God” and “more”.  Viggo has his arms around Orlando’s chest, one hand circling his nipple, and the other stroking his cock, jerking Orlando off to the rhythm of their fucking.

With a final, synchronized scream, they come together.

Viggo always screams the same thing. “I love you!”

Viggo began to touch his boy. He’d run his hand over the ‘hawk, feeling the stubble as it grew out.  He’d rub Orlando’s sore back for him, unfortunately for Viggo it was always a fully clothed back, massaged quickly during breaks. He’d throw his arm around his love’s shoulders as they laughed at some joke only the two of them could understand. Viggo even went out to the clubs a couple of times a week.  How could he not when his love would always ask him to dance?  And with every touch, Viggo would entreat his boy to see him. To see the enduring love just waiting for him, if only Orlando would reach for it. 

Viggo began to bring presents to his boy.  It had started by Viggo bringing in a book on extreme sport locations to be found in New Zealand. It was used, and kind of old, but Orlando was undeniably touched. After that, he really couldn’t help himself.  He was writing so many poems, sketching and painting Orlando’s image, developing film rolls that had no one but Orlando on them.  He simply had to share them with his heart’s desire. But he was careful, ok-scared; he only brought in those writings and photos that didn’t show too much. He couldn’t bring himself to show off his vulnerable heart so full of love until the idol of that love gave him some quiet sign that this devotion would be well received. Yet, no matter how carefully chosen, each piece said the exact same thing.  “I Love You”.

Viggo began to go a little crazy around his boy.  He felt as if everything he said and did shouted out the one truth left in his soul.

“I Love You, Orlando!”  Strangely, no one could hear him.  Orlando talked to him, laughed with him, worked with him, asked advice of him, and learned from him.  Orlando started each morning with a hug and a kiss for Viggo, during the day he might wander next to Viggo and stroke his hair back from his eyes; at night at the clubs he always saved several dances for Viggo.  Viggo should have been in his own private heaven, would have been if Orlando didn’t touch and kiss and laugh and talk and dance with every other cast member who let him.

None of these touches were Viggo’s alone. 

Viggo began to grow very tired of his own hands.  Wanking had gone from nightly, to morning and night, then to quick sessions in the Cuntbago or in any quiet corner he could find.  It could be said that this tiredness is what led to the final thing Viggo did, but it could also be said that Viggo’s heart and soul were tired too.  Tired of waiting for Viggo to just say it out loud once and for all; “I love you”.

Viggo began to breathe again, just little gasping breathes, as he stood in the door of the Cuntbago and stared at his boy.  There was Orlando, his dream for the rest of his life, reading from his journal.  The journal Viggo (possibly Viggo’s heart and soul in collusion) had left out, open, right at the words written in his own hand; the words that summed up his entire existence for the rest of his life.  Viggo began to breathe a little faster, as he looked into the soft brown eyes of his love.  Eyes wide with shock, glowing with unshed tears, and shining with the same look Viggo saw every morning in his own…could it be true?

Viggo began to smile and cry at the same time, wrapped up at last in a touch meant just for him; hearing Orlando say to him, by way of feverish, frantic kisses and hands caressing everywhere, “I love you, Viggo.  I love you, too”

The end