Part 49 (contd.)
The first time Orlando tries to walk out of his hotel room, his hand is still on the doorknob when he realizes he's forgotten his mobile. The second time, standing a good five steps into the hallway, he notices he's not wearing any socks. The third time it's for something too embarrassing to note for the record, and the fourth time he makes it all the way to the elevator before turning back for his lucky wrist cuff. He scolds himself as he dashes back; he's going to be late and the luck probably won't do him any good anyway, up all night, disastrous morning, but, still, it can't hurt.
The fourth time he lets himself back in the hotel room, Viggo is sitting on the bed.
Orlando stops in the middle of the room. "What are you--"
Viggo shrugs, but looks straight at him, unwavering. "Saw you in the hallway," he says, "Figured I'd just wait for you to realize you had to come back."
"Haven't you slept?" Orlando says it quickly, partly to stop himself from saying anything else. He thought all his anger had washed out of him during the night, but apparently not.
Viggo keeps looking at him. "Haven't you?" Orlando takes a step into the room, moving into Viggo's orbit. There's no smell of alcohol there; Viggo isn't drunk. But there's cigarette smoke and his skin and Orlando still feels dizzy because, even now, even though he's had years to stop noticing -- or at least get a little distance -- there's still the knowledge that he can smell Viggo's mood in the dark. He's still waiting for relief from that.
Viggo clears his throat. "I thought about, about what you said," he says, "I thought we could talk about it on the way to the press conference."
Orlando claps his hands together, and thinks that maybe if he can just keep this light, they can get out of here in one piece. "Listen," he tells Viggo, and the taste in his mouth is awful but his voice stays clear and tired. "I know you're not finished talking this out, but I don't want to talk you through it. This is not last night, take two, right?" He claps his hands again for emphasis and moves towards the bed. "I'm not up for it. The rest you've got to do on your own."
Orlando holds out his hand, palm open. "We need to go. This whole concert thing is your big gesture, everyone will gut you if you aren't there."
"No," Viggo rests his hand in Orlando's, but he doesn't stand up. "We can talk about it on the way there," he starts, "but I think that -- I mean, I think that -- if I go any longer without saying something, I think I'll be in danger of becoming an even bigger asshole."
Orlando feels his stomach folding in on itself. "What are you doing?" He tries to stop it from becoming accusation, but, then again, his challenges are starting to sound like wishes and he tried to give those up around the time he realized that Viggo didn't want things that were easily gotten.
He's maintaining an impervious front, except then the creases around Viggo's eyes deepen, with a sort of manic joy Orlando hasn't seen in a while, but also hasn't tried to forget.
"Shut up for a minute and I'll tell you." Viggo squeezes Orlando's hand, then rocks forward to standing and before Orlando can blink, or pull away, or say no for the fifteenth time, Viggo is kissing him.
Orlando's mouth opens with surprise, but Viggo cups his chin and pulls him forward until Orlando is pressed against him. He blinks twice, feels Viggo's skin beneath his eyelashes, and realizes it's quite possible the bottom of his stomach is dropping out. Viggo's lips and teeth and stubble are scraping him red and shocked, and the sensation is what finally snaps him back.
"Oh," Orlando manages, "oh, fuck," as Viggo lets him go and moves one hand down, pushing it firmly into Orlando's lower back. There's a moment when he can feel each of Viggo's fingertips resting on either side of his spine. He wants to bend in, but he shakes his head, pulling back.
Orlando can feel the hair at Viggo's left temple teasing the corner of his mouth. He thinks he should actually take a step back, knows that no matter what he says next, his voice will be embarrassingly thick, and tries to ignore how hard he's gotten just from the feeling of Viggo's lower lip resting against his ear. "We're not going to the press conference," Orlando says.
"But," Viggo puts his hands up in half a protest.
"No," Orlando shakes his head. "This is you. You go away, have some crazy epiphany and come back to do this big, bold thing but you don't think about it, you don't think about the consequences. I'm not going to just be swept up by that, alright?" He crosses his arms to his chest. "Do you get that? It's not that easy."
"What makes you think this is easy?" Viggo says eyes wide, shaking his head. "What makes you think that any of this is easy? I mean, neither of us has slept. Everyone's looking at me like I'm going to leave again and, fuck, what about the last two years has been easy, really?"
Orlando forces a breath in, and feels a stab of annoyance. "Don't come to me because you're tired," he tells Viggo, "don't. Don't come to me looking to settle."
There are bits and pieces of a sentence in the back of his throat, but he swallows hard to keep it from coming out, because he knows he shouldn't ask whether or not he's just a second-best version of Bean, not unless he's absolutely sure he wants to hear the answer.
"Stop," Viggo frowns, his voice is low and urgent. "This isn't -" Viggo reaches out to grab Orlando's sleeve. "You are nobody's consolation prize. That isn't what this is about."
"Well," Orlando concentrates on staying very still under Viggo's hand, "tell me what this is about, then."
There's a pause, and Viggo looks over his shoulder like he expects someone might be watching. "I've been thinking," he says. "About you." Orlando watches the hollow at the base of Viggo's throat, watches him swallow. "I mean, for a very long time. Even when I didn't know I was, sometimes. I just," he waves his hand in the air, then takes a breath. "I'm ready to stop thinking now."
"You've been thinking," Orlando says, very carefully. "About me."
"Orlando."
"Since when," Orlando says, looking up suddenly, his blinking fierce.
"Since always." Viggo shrugs. "And a lot since Eric," he adds, finally looking into Orlando's eyes again. "I didn't know. And then he was there, and then you were. Everything's changing, but that doesn't mean that everything that came before it was automatically so bad. I mean, you've change, I've -- I'm trying to change, so we can change. What we are can change, too."
Orlando breathes out, shaky and fast, and he feels Viggo leaning closer, feels the heat coming off his body. He shakes his head. "It isn't that easy, you know?"
"Yes it is," says Viggo. "Everything else is different, everything," he sighs, "why not us?"
Orlando closes his eyes, and there's a swell of relief that makes them prickle and sting. There's something else, something he maybe doesn't want to let himself know is there, the slip of heels on the ledge, maybe, the fear of falling.
"It took you long enough," Orlando mutters and Viggo's hand moves, folding comfortably into the dip of his back.
Viggo rolls his eyes, and something cracks open between them. "Don't be an idiot," he says. "Right?" He ducks his chin and grins against Orlando's mouth. His laughter bubbles up and Orlando can feel it pass between them and slip down his own throat, ticklish. He bites Viggo's lip sharply in response and Viggo laughs again in surprise, dipping his head and dragging his mouth up Orlando's neck, stopping behind Orlando's ear and breathing in.
"Mm," Viggo says into Orlando's neck.
It's a question, and Orlando realizes he's been making noises. His eyes snap open. "And this isn't going to wreck up the band," he says, as though it will make a difference at this point if Viggo's reply involves the band disintegrating into a fiery wreckage and nobody speaking again until 2017.
"It won't." Viggo drags his teeth along the inside of Orlando's wrist.
Orlando shakes his head. "And you'll tell me if you think you're going to try and fix everything by running off again?" It's half a joke, but it doesn't come out quite like one.
Viggo breathes out loudly through his nose. "That was one time. Four years ago." He pushes his fingers along the edge of Orlando's waistband.
Orlando gets still again. "You left."
"Yeah, and it wasn't intentional," Viggo starts. His hands are rubbing patches of friction at Orlando's hips, and the six or eight brain cells that are still dedicated to coherent thought at this point are glad that he decided to wear his oldest, softest yoga pants this morning, because it's like he can already feel the heat of Viggo's hands on his skin.
Viggo shifts slightly, and Orlando can feel Viggo's fingertips moving against the edge of his tailbone. It's distracting as hell, but -- "Exactly," Orlando interrupts.
" - and right now I am very intentionally trying to take your pants off, if you'll let me," Viggo continues, fingers moving again. "Hell, maybe I'll take them off even if you won't let me, but my point is that I’m not going anywhere, alright?"
Orlando can see the tail end of a smile pulling at the corner of Viggo's mouth. "Yeah," he can't help grinning just to make Viggo's smile catch hold and stay. "Yeah, alright."
He sinks his hands into Viggo's upper arms and pulls, one, two, three dancing strides to the edge of the mattress. The lamp by the bed is on, the blankets in a tangle at the center of the mattress. He thinks it looks as if they've already been there before they've even started.
Everything stops when Orlando's calves hit the foot of the bed. He's fighting to keep breathing and Viggo's got Orlando's hand in his, brushing his mouth across Orlando's open palm, and the sudden scrape of Viggo's teeth across the heel of his hand makes Orlando break out in a sweat, just between his shoulder blades.
Orlando slides his hand away from Viggo's mouth and places it across his cheek, pushing his thumb into the skin just above Viggo's jawbone. "This isn't an experiment, alright?" He knows this is his last protest, but maybe Viggo does, too, because he doesn't even blink.
"I know." Viggo turns his head and catches the pad of Orlando's thumb with his teeth, bites hard enough to make Orlando cry out, then lets go.
Orlando can't recall anything easier than this. He's dimly aware of the light beneath the blinds getting stronger and a door slamming down the hall, but then, with Viggo's callused thumb skidding over his hipbone and his slouched-off pants caught halfway down his legs, Orlando feels himself letting go. He snakes his left hand between them and pushes his thumb along the outlined edge of Viggo's cock in his jeans, pressing in hard with his thumbnail. Viggo's whole body tenses and Orlando laughs.
"You," Viggo is saying, over and over, "you, Jesus, Orlando," his voice still rough and almost surprised.
Orlando hums and feels the buzz when Viggo hums back, brushing his mouth over Orlando's left nipple and moving to bite down where Orlando's neck meets his shoulder.
The hotel phone rings.
Viggo lifts his head from Orlando's neck and Orlando's skin stings in the shape where his mouth was. "Oh." Orlando shifts to the right and his cock skates over Viggo's thigh, leaving a dark smudge across the denim. When he moves closer, Viggo tilts away, looking at the nightstand. "What?"
"Phone," Viggo says. He's not breathing half as hard as Orlando would like. "Shit, we forgot - "
"No, absolutely not," Orlando heaves himself up onto one elbow, shaking his head and pushing his hand up Viggo's back until his palm rests against Viggo's shoulder blade.
Viggo leans down and bites Orlando's bare shoulder. "We should," he says, neutrally, but Orlando can also feel fingers sliding down the back of his left thigh, two fingers hooking behind his knee.
"No, we very well fucking shouldn't," Orlando sputters, finally shoving down his own pants and kicking them to the floor. He pushes his hands up, yanking at Viggo's fly and enjoying the way the inside seam scrapes at his skin. Viggo reaches down and pinches his thigh, then bites him again, raking his fingers across Orlando's scalp.
Orlando twists. He's above Viggo now, balanced by Viggo's hand at the base of his spine. He pushes forward, lifting up and forcing them half-over the edge of the bed. He plants his palms on either side of Viggo's head, and his fingers dig into the mattress.
Viggo looks up at him, grinning. Orlando can see all of his teeth and then, he freezes, feeling a wave of déjà vu. "We've--"
"Yes," Viggo laughs. "At least the fall won't be quite as far as the top bunk."
"I've got better balance now, anyway." Orlando tilts his head, looking at the way Viggo's head hangs over the edge of the mattress.
"Yoga," Viggo nods. "That should be--" his mouth quirks. "A pleasant development."
"We'll see," Orlando says. How much has he forgotten, he wonders, pressing a knee between Viggo's legs, how much is new, like the focused look in Viggo's eyes, and how much was always there, waiting.
When Orlando is on the cusp of sleep -- safely positioned with Viggo at the center of the bed, exhaustion scratchy behind his eyes, and hot patches on his skin reminding him of every place Viggo's been -- someone thuds on the door of the suite.
"Orli?" It's Elijah. Orlando pushes his face into Viggo's arm and hates everyone, for a moment. "Open up, man!" There's a muffled bang and then Lij's voice again. "I don't think he's in there."
"He must have left his mobile, then," someone else says. Dom, it sounds like. Orlando sighs. Several things are about to happen, but all of them are probably inevitable, so there's no reason to make a fuss or sit up or anything drastic like that.
"Elijah," Viggo says loudly. He doesn't open his eyes, but he does push even closer toward Orlando on the bed.
There's a palpable pause behind the door, then a cough. "Uh. Viggo?" Elijah's voice has an odd lilt to it.
Viggo clears his throat. "Yeah," he says, voice rusty and calm.
There's an astonished giggle (Elijah), a muffled squeak (Billy, or perhaps Liv), and then a rather loud snort (Karl, or, oh God, possibly Bernard).
Orlando can feel the sheet ripple under Viggo's shaking laughter. He runs his hand up Viggo's side beneath the sheets and lets his thumb ghost over Viggo's stomach. Orlando breathes in. It's the exhaustion that's making him shake again, it must be.
"Do me a favor and fuck off for a while, alright?" Viggo says, not unkindly, in the direction of the audience on the other side of the door. He moves his hand to sit next to Orlando's. His index finger strokes twice over Orlando's and he can feel himself getting hard all over again.
"Um, yeah," Elijah says, fingers drumming on the door. "Sure. Have - uh," someone's hooting with laughter out there, "I mean, we'll, see you later. 'Kay?"
Orlando is starting to pant into Viggo's neck now. Viggo makes a pleased noise, whispers, "Sshh, shh," and Orlando feels his mouth stretching into another loose grin. His fingers grip and slide against Viggo's, both moving downward, and Orlando rubs against them, the bites and scrapes burning sweet and sharp, over and over again.
The implication of what's happened is seeping into Orlando's mind like a tea bag, both the aborted conversation from the hallway and all that came before it. Everything about the last twenty-four hours has been mixed-up and arse-backwards, and Orlando doesn't know whether it's time for them to sleep, talk, fight or fuck. Whatever comes next, though, Orlando really believes that they're both right here, paying attention, for the first time in a long while. His brain is sparking like a dying fuse, and when he opens his eyes he sees Viggo looking back at him, steady and unblinking.