Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 9/?
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rugbytackle***PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE heed the warnings. But also trust me in the long run, okay? :-)***
Title: Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 9/?
Author: shegollum
Pairing: Viggo/Bean; includes some Orlando, too.
Rating: R - NC17
Summary: Morning after the night before...where are they in this strange new space?
Warnings: Angst; mental cruelty/instability; possibly non-con; cutting; substance abuse -- you name it...we've probably got it.
Disclaimer: No truth in it at all.
Archive: Viggo-Cursive and rugbytackle.
A/N: Not beta'd. All errors are completely mine and mine alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Banner bestowed upon me by the monstrously talented Amanda (![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
legomyarrow). I am not worthy, but I LOVE it so much. Thank you, sweets. :-)
He heard Orlando repeat his first words once. Then twice. And then the connection was lost. Leaning back against the plain white wall, Viggo finally let the razor fall from his hand, spatters of blood following its course to the tile floor. He was shaking – with fury and pain – but more so with the desperate effort to pull back within the confines of his control. Hands found opposing elbows as he pulled his arms tight to his torso, sliding down the wall silently, his face haunted with emotions. Deliberately taking deep steady breaths, he tackled each wave of feeling as it came, willing it into a submission and placing it where it belonged to be dealt with at a time he couldn’t yet imagine. As he worked to manage each one, his fingernails dug into his arms, starting deep maroon scratches that ran from elbow to wrist. The hurt was soothing, grounding. Again and again he used the sharpness of pain to keep his focus. His breathing became more steady and his need for the vicious gouging at skin less deliberate and focused. Sweat dotted his face and he felt the coolness of it in the small of his back as well. The tears that had first escaped him were gone and all that was left was an overwhelming exhaustion and gentle, predictable, blessedly definable pain in his bleeding palm and down the lengths of his wounded forearms. He held himself rigidly in his crouch for a long time before finally allowing himself the comfort of sleep on the cold tile floor.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He slept as though drugged but only for a few hours, waking suddenly and with a pervasive sense of dread and guilt. Skin ached with fresh wounds and gave him a focal point that he needed. He stood slowly, noting the scraped ruts down his arms, dark trails of bruises interrupted by cuts where nails had clawed completely through skin.
It would be a long-sleeved shirt day he thought wildly to himself, almost emitting a caustic laugh at his own expense.
He turned his hands up, not quite sure which one he’d used. It was his right, the palm a purpled mess of bruised gashes, blood still oozing through scabs that were trying to form. He used the tails of his already stained shirt to scrub across his skin, welcoming the fresh hurt, the reminder of this pain that he knew intimately. A pain he alone could begin and end. He stepped out of the studio, careful to pull the door closed behind him.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Orlando pulled up in his drive just as Viggo was walking back from the trash bins. Orlando noticed at once that the older man looked tired, but as he greeted him Viggo smiled and pulled him into a long hug. It was a typical LA day – hot and sunshiny – and Viggo squinted at him as they broke apart. His “hi” was soft and full of warmth but the younger man noticed at once that his eyes didn’t quite meet his own when he spoke.
“How about some breakfast? Or coffee at least? Come on in,” he chattered, opening the door and holding Brigit back with one foot as he did so, gesturing for Orlando to follow.
“Nah, Vig. Don’t worry about me. I just need to see you for a few minutes, yeah?”
Orlando was nervous and not entirely sure how he wanted to continue. He knew that Viggo must have been hurt by Bean’s cruel comments directly to him on the phone yesterday and he wasn’t sure how much more he may have heard before the other man had caught sight of the open phone and shut it off. Bean hadn’t been willing to offer anything in response to Orlando’s questions beyond a few bitter jabs of words before insisting that he would not talk about it.
Anxiety and worry about his friends pushed the words out of him. “What is going on between you two, Vig? What happened?”
Viggo’s head dropped forward slightly and his eyes slowly closed before snapping up to meet Orlando’s. The younger man was startled by the look in those blue-gray eyes that had always been so open to him. They were flat and distant. None of the humor or love that always came through in Viggo’s gaze was there now and the effect was like a blow to him. He instinctively stepped closer, care and worry making him reach to touch Viggo.
Of all the reactions Orlando could have ever imagined the other man having in response to him, flinching would have never made the list. Viggo covered it quickly and took a half step back as he shoved his hands into his front pockets roughly, a forceful yet controlled exhalation punctuating his stance.
“I don’t know what you mean, Orlando. We’re just not close like we were. It happens.”
“Bullshit, Vig. Bullshit!”
At that, Orlando saw a flash of something cross Viggo's face but it was too quick and too hidden for him to read it clearly.
“Did you ask him?”
“I’m asking you,” Orlando replied evenly.
Steel blue eyes met his again – not as lifeless and now charged with a hint of defiance. But then he looked down again, hands tightened into fists, the lines of knuckles visible through worn denim pockets. He didn’t speak and Orlando could see the tenseness that overwhelmed his friend – his arms were rigid, hands clenched, even his toes sought to dig into the floor beneath him.
“Vig,” Orlando whispered, daring to step closer, painfully aware as he did so that he was moving as one might do with a cornered animal – in a non-threatening posture with his hands turned up, his motion cautious and his voice soft and even. “I’m worried about you both. How can I help?”
With the saddest specter of a smile on his lips, Viggo looked up immediately, a hollow “I’m fine” rubber-stamped into air between them.
He moved, heading down the hall toward the kitchen and Orlando suddenly turned the other way, toward Viggo’s studio at the far end of the house. He’d only taken a few steps when he was stopped by Viggo’s raspy voice.
“Don’t.”
The younger man turned, seeing Viggo in the sunlight spilling crossways through the hall. He could sense the effort he exuded to keep his next comment light and normal.
“Got stuff in there that’s not finished. You don’t want to see it.”
“But I do, Vig.”
“It will wait, Orlando,” he said, his voice that of the mentor grown to love years before. “Come on. I’ll cook for you.”
“Vig.”
“What?” he said and in that moment, he was himself, the engaging crooked grin a soothing and wonderful piece of the life that seemed to have otherwise become lost to them all.
Orlando moved closer, holding the other man steady with his gaze until they were sharing the same streak of light. Viggo didn’t look away and didn’t flinch this time as Orlando took his hand, squeezing hard, wishing his love and friendship to the other man through his touch.
Viggo didn’t back away physically but at the sympathy in those soothing brown eyes, he began to feel a sense of panic. Orlando could see it – the dwindling of something in the older man’s eyes – and he reacted without thought, pulling Viggo closer and wrapping his arm’s tightly around his shoulders, enclosing him in his quiet embrace. As he leaned back, looking into the older man’s face, he was shocked to see his own hand stained and sticky with blood. Viggo felt and saw Orlando’s reaction and knew at once that he’d let his guard down, given himself away by letting the younger man too close. Both men stepped back, but where one did it to hide, the other did it to seek. Orlando’s hand grabbed at Viggo’s again, yanking upward and seeing the bloody gore of his palm, deep cuts in ruined flesh – a great mass of blood both new and old, edges of skin seeking and failing to hold together. Orlando’s quick gaze saw something else at the hidden wrist and he glanced quickly at Viggo’s face for only an instant before decisively unbuttoning the cuff and pushing the sleeve up the torn, bloodied arm. Looking up at his friend, Viggo was startled to see not revulsion or disappointment but only sad eyes swimming with tears.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Brigit pushed closer and closer to her human, some deep dog sense telling her that she’d failed to protect him once and driving in her a resolve to be more diligent now. Viggo slumped back into the leather couch, his arm prone across the dog’s back as Orlando worked at cleaning his bloodied hand. Viggo didn’t want this attention but he didn’t quite know how to avoid it without drawing more of it toward himself. So he quietly endured it, wanting so much to be able to feel the concern and care so evident in the younger man’s expressions and touch. He realized that he couldn’t quite recall what those emotions should feel like.
Orlando had insisted on seeing both arms and then slathering antibiotic ointment all over the horrible gouges, treating deeper spots with bandages, too. He was washing Viggo’s palm now, bent over his work so that Viggo could only occasionally see the worried scowl on his face. Wet bloody paper towels and a bowl of warm pink water were on the coffee table alongside gauze pads and tape that Orlando had found in the back bathroom. The throb and sting of his wounds somehow seemed the most tangible thing in the room and Viggo vaguely wondered why that should be.
Not a word had been spoken between them in all this time. No questions had been asked or answered – and now somehow they both felt withdrawn, embarrassed by unexplainable exposure. Clearing his throat, Orlando finally spoke.
“I think you need to see a doctor,” he said quietly and slowly. Viggo felt his heart race wildly in response to the statement and only felt a lessening in his alarm as he processed the Brit's next sentence. “I can’t get the bleeding to stop, Vig, and I think you’re going to need stitches.”
Only when he heard this did Viggo realize that he’d meant only a doctor to treat his physical injuries and not someone to poke and prod in the convoluted construction of his psyche. His throat was dry and rough and he had to clear it before speaking.
“No, no…it’s okay. It will stop. Here, let me take that.” He pressed more toweling against his torn palm, scrambling with the need to make Orlando understand that he was okay. With his elbow, he gestured toward the roll of gauze on the table, asking for it. Orlando frowned at him but complied and between the two of them, they fashioned a wrap that would do despite Orlando's continued pleas for Viggo to go with him to a doctor.
Viggo got up and headed again toward the kitchen, Brigit right on his heels. “Come on, Orlando. This time I’m hungry. If you want to eat, follow me.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“So, you did that to yourself, right?”
The question was finally asked as they lingered over cups of coffee at the kitchen table. Viggo didn’t answer for a long time, only finally – calmly -- offering his nod as he looked the younger man directly in the eye.
“Why, Vig? Is this… are you… should I be more worried than I already am, mate?”
His awkward concern made Viggo chuckle a little. He stood up quickly and pulled off his shirt, doing it all in one motion as though he had to do it before he lost his nerve.
“It helps me. And I’ve done it before – just not in a long time. It’s not that big of a deal…and it’s not something I can really explain, okay? But no, I’m not suicidal. And no, I’m not insane. It’s not about anything like that, okay?”
He extended a bare arm toward Orlando, pointing out an odd trapezoid of lighter flesh right in the crook of his elbow.
“That was a spot I used a lot. Easy to hide. Ended up with a noticeable scar though which wasn’t intentional. There are other scars from it. But they’re not very noticeable, especially here.” He smirked a little as he indicated his torso, his chest hair clearly a good camouflage. But Orlando could now see faint tracery of white lines against his more tanned skin. The younger man's forehead creased as he imagined the pain that all of these injuries had caused his friend and he looked up at him with a great sadness.
“But why do you hurt yourself, Vig? I don’t understand.”
“It’s just what I do. Don’t worry about it, Orli. It’s okay.”
Orlando stared at him for a long time, his expression of concern never wavering. Finally he sighed and changed the topic.
“Sean needs you. Can you help?”
The other man looked at him blankly before shaking his head and responding with a firm, “No.”
Orlando’s eyes widened and for the first time since he’d been there, he felt pure anger.
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘No’? He’s your friend. He’s a wonderful man. You know that, Viggo! And he is in pain – and he needs you and you and I both know that he will die before he admits to needing anyone! He’s fucking killing himself, mate. Don’t tell me you don’t care!”
Orlando watched the battle going on in Viggo. The man clearly cared, but he wasn’t going to give in to this for reasons the younger man couldn’t understand.
“Viggo – fuck, mate! It’s Sean! Our Beanie. You know what a good man he is, and how strong and solitary he can be when he’s hurting. Like he was when he went through the divorce in New Zealand. We were there for him then, Vig. And we should be now. Come on, yeah?”
Catching Viggo’s gaze as he finished his thought, he sensed the indecision in him. The expression on the American’s face had an element of loss and of worry, too, but also there was resigned defeat. He looked down as though steeling himself for what was to come next and then he looked at Orlando and spoke earnestly.
“You love him, Orlando. I see it. I can’t be there for him. I… I can’t. And he wouldn’t want it even if I could. You need to be there for him, to help him through whatever this is. You’ll need to help him, to be there with him.”
Orlando suddenly knew what Viggo was saying, what he was giving him permission to do. It was both an admission of the end of something between himself and Sean but also clearly an endorsement of Orlando trying to fill some void with the other man. Disbelief and anger overwhelmed him and he knew he was glaring into Viggo’s face, willing him to back down, to change what he was saying. He never felt so helpless as he did when he saw something flicker behind those pale blue eyes. A challenge was lost, a desire abandoned, and with it went a huge part of whom he’d always believed Viggo to be.
“I will go back to him, Viggo,” he said shakily. "I’ll be the friend to him that you won’t be. Because he needs someone, yeah? But know this, mate. I know that you need someone, too. I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help you... how to get in when you’ve pushed me out.”
“I’m fine, Orlando. There is no reason for you to be worried about me,” Viggo said in a flat unarguable tone that Orlando argued anyway.
“Don’t lie to me, Viggo. At least give me that. For the friendship we’ve had – and that I want to continue to have – don’t fucking lie to me.”
Viggo turned, pulling his shirt back on and facing out the kitchen window. Finally he quietly said, “He needs you, Orlando. Go. Please.”
When Orlando spoke again, his voice almost brought out the father in Viggo. The younger man sounded sad and somewhat lost, but as he continued to speak, his resolve became clearer and Viggo stayed turned away from him. The tone reassured him. Orlando would take care of Sean and all would be okay.
“Vig, I’m here for you, too, okay? The thought of you hurting yourself makes me sick… sad… and pissed, too, you dumb fuck. But you know I love you and I’m your friend now and always, yeah?”
He spoke to the silent back across the room, expecting no response and getting none. Not until he asked his final question before leaving.
“Do you want me to let you know what is going on?”
“I need for you to. Please.” He heard the tremor in Viggo’s voice and couldn’t stop it from replaying in his mind as he drove away.
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Title: Green Dark by shegollum -- Part 9/?
Author: shegollum
Pairing: Viggo/Bean; includes some Orlando, too.
Rating: R - NC17
Summary: Morning after the night before...where are they in this strange new space?
Warnings: Angst; mental cruelty/instability; possibly non-con; cutting; substance abuse -- you name it...we've probably got it.
Disclaimer: No truth in it at all.
Archive: Viggo-Cursive and rugbytackle.
A/N: Not beta'd. All errors are completely mine and mine alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Banner bestowed upon me by the monstrously talented Amanda (
legomyarrow). I am not worthy, but I LOVE it so much. Thank you, sweets. :-)He heard Orlando repeat his first words once. Then twice. And then the connection was lost. Leaning back against the plain white wall, Viggo finally let the razor fall from his hand, spatters of blood following its course to the tile floor. He was shaking – with fury and pain – but more so with the desperate effort to pull back within the confines of his control. Hands found opposing elbows as he pulled his arms tight to his torso, sliding down the wall silently, his face haunted with emotions. Deliberately taking deep steady breaths, he tackled each wave of feeling as it came, willing it into a submission and placing it where it belonged to be dealt with at a time he couldn’t yet imagine. As he worked to manage each one, his fingernails dug into his arms, starting deep maroon scratches that ran from elbow to wrist. The hurt was soothing, grounding. Again and again he used the sharpness of pain to keep his focus. His breathing became more steady and his need for the vicious gouging at skin less deliberate and focused. Sweat dotted his face and he felt the coolness of it in the small of his back as well. The tears that had first escaped him were gone and all that was left was an overwhelming exhaustion and gentle, predictable, blessedly definable pain in his bleeding palm and down the lengths of his wounded forearms. He held himself rigidly in his crouch for a long time before finally allowing himself the comfort of sleep on the cold tile floor.
He slept as though drugged but only for a few hours, waking suddenly and with a pervasive sense of dread and guilt. Skin ached with fresh wounds and gave him a focal point that he needed. He stood slowly, noting the scraped ruts down his arms, dark trails of bruises interrupted by cuts where nails had clawed completely through skin.
It would be a long-sleeved shirt day he thought wildly to himself, almost emitting a caustic laugh at his own expense.
He turned his hands up, not quite sure which one he’d used. It was his right, the palm a purpled mess of bruised gashes, blood still oozing through scabs that were trying to form. He used the tails of his already stained shirt to scrub across his skin, welcoming the fresh hurt, the reminder of this pain that he knew intimately. A pain he alone could begin and end. He stepped out of the studio, careful to pull the door closed behind him.
Orlando pulled up in his drive just as Viggo was walking back from the trash bins. Orlando noticed at once that the older man looked tired, but as he greeted him Viggo smiled and pulled him into a long hug. It was a typical LA day – hot and sunshiny – and Viggo squinted at him as they broke apart. His “hi” was soft and full of warmth but the younger man noticed at once that his eyes didn’t quite meet his own when he spoke.
“How about some breakfast? Or coffee at least? Come on in,” he chattered, opening the door and holding Brigit back with one foot as he did so, gesturing for Orlando to follow.
“Nah, Vig. Don’t worry about me. I just need to see you for a few minutes, yeah?”
Orlando was nervous and not entirely sure how he wanted to continue. He knew that Viggo must have been hurt by Bean’s cruel comments directly to him on the phone yesterday and he wasn’t sure how much more he may have heard before the other man had caught sight of the open phone and shut it off. Bean hadn’t been willing to offer anything in response to Orlando’s questions beyond a few bitter jabs of words before insisting that he would not talk about it.
Anxiety and worry about his friends pushed the words out of him. “What is going on between you two, Vig? What happened?”
Viggo’s head dropped forward slightly and his eyes slowly closed before snapping up to meet Orlando’s. The younger man was startled by the look in those blue-gray eyes that had always been so open to him. They were flat and distant. None of the humor or love that always came through in Viggo’s gaze was there now and the effect was like a blow to him. He instinctively stepped closer, care and worry making him reach to touch Viggo.
Of all the reactions Orlando could have ever imagined the other man having in response to him, flinching would have never made the list. Viggo covered it quickly and took a half step back as he shoved his hands into his front pockets roughly, a forceful yet controlled exhalation punctuating his stance.
“I don’t know what you mean, Orlando. We’re just not close like we were. It happens.”
“Bullshit, Vig. Bullshit!”
At that, Orlando saw a flash of something cross Viggo's face but it was too quick and too hidden for him to read it clearly.
“Did you ask him?”
“I’m asking you,” Orlando replied evenly.
Steel blue eyes met his again – not as lifeless and now charged with a hint of defiance. But then he looked down again, hands tightened into fists, the lines of knuckles visible through worn denim pockets. He didn’t speak and Orlando could see the tenseness that overwhelmed his friend – his arms were rigid, hands clenched, even his toes sought to dig into the floor beneath him.
“Vig,” Orlando whispered, daring to step closer, painfully aware as he did so that he was moving as one might do with a cornered animal – in a non-threatening posture with his hands turned up, his motion cautious and his voice soft and even. “I’m worried about you both. How can I help?”
With the saddest specter of a smile on his lips, Viggo looked up immediately, a hollow “I’m fine” rubber-stamped into air between them.
He moved, heading down the hall toward the kitchen and Orlando suddenly turned the other way, toward Viggo’s studio at the far end of the house. He’d only taken a few steps when he was stopped by Viggo’s raspy voice.
“Don’t.”
The younger man turned, seeing Viggo in the sunlight spilling crossways through the hall. He could sense the effort he exuded to keep his next comment light and normal.
“Got stuff in there that’s not finished. You don’t want to see it.”
“But I do, Vig.”
“It will wait, Orlando,” he said, his voice that of the mentor grown to love years before. “Come on. I’ll cook for you.”
“Vig.”
“What?” he said and in that moment, he was himself, the engaging crooked grin a soothing and wonderful piece of the life that seemed to have otherwise become lost to them all.
Orlando moved closer, holding the other man steady with his gaze until they were sharing the same streak of light. Viggo didn’t look away and didn’t flinch this time as Orlando took his hand, squeezing hard, wishing his love and friendship to the other man through his touch.
Viggo didn’t back away physically but at the sympathy in those soothing brown eyes, he began to feel a sense of panic. Orlando could see it – the dwindling of something in the older man’s eyes – and he reacted without thought, pulling Viggo closer and wrapping his arm’s tightly around his shoulders, enclosing him in his quiet embrace. As he leaned back, looking into the older man’s face, he was shocked to see his own hand stained and sticky with blood. Viggo felt and saw Orlando’s reaction and knew at once that he’d let his guard down, given himself away by letting the younger man too close. Both men stepped back, but where one did it to hide, the other did it to seek. Orlando’s hand grabbed at Viggo’s again, yanking upward and seeing the bloody gore of his palm, deep cuts in ruined flesh – a great mass of blood both new and old, edges of skin seeking and failing to hold together. Orlando’s quick gaze saw something else at the hidden wrist and he glanced quickly at Viggo’s face for only an instant before decisively unbuttoning the cuff and pushing the sleeve up the torn, bloodied arm. Looking up at his friend, Viggo was startled to see not revulsion or disappointment but only sad eyes swimming with tears.
Brigit pushed closer and closer to her human, some deep dog sense telling her that she’d failed to protect him once and driving in her a resolve to be more diligent now. Viggo slumped back into the leather couch, his arm prone across the dog’s back as Orlando worked at cleaning his bloodied hand. Viggo didn’t want this attention but he didn’t quite know how to avoid it without drawing more of it toward himself. So he quietly endured it, wanting so much to be able to feel the concern and care so evident in the younger man’s expressions and touch. He realized that he couldn’t quite recall what those emotions should feel like.
Orlando had insisted on seeing both arms and then slathering antibiotic ointment all over the horrible gouges, treating deeper spots with bandages, too. He was washing Viggo’s palm now, bent over his work so that Viggo could only occasionally see the worried scowl on his face. Wet bloody paper towels and a bowl of warm pink water were on the coffee table alongside gauze pads and tape that Orlando had found in the back bathroom. The throb and sting of his wounds somehow seemed the most tangible thing in the room and Viggo vaguely wondered why that should be.
Not a word had been spoken between them in all this time. No questions had been asked or answered – and now somehow they both felt withdrawn, embarrassed by unexplainable exposure. Clearing his throat, Orlando finally spoke.
“I think you need to see a doctor,” he said quietly and slowly. Viggo felt his heart race wildly in response to the statement and only felt a lessening in his alarm as he processed the Brit's next sentence. “I can’t get the bleeding to stop, Vig, and I think you’re going to need stitches.”
Only when he heard this did Viggo realize that he’d meant only a doctor to treat his physical injuries and not someone to poke and prod in the convoluted construction of his psyche. His throat was dry and rough and he had to clear it before speaking.
“No, no…it’s okay. It will stop. Here, let me take that.” He pressed more toweling against his torn palm, scrambling with the need to make Orlando understand that he was okay. With his elbow, he gestured toward the roll of gauze on the table, asking for it. Orlando frowned at him but complied and between the two of them, they fashioned a wrap that would do despite Orlando's continued pleas for Viggo to go with him to a doctor.
Viggo got up and headed again toward the kitchen, Brigit right on his heels. “Come on, Orlando. This time I’m hungry. If you want to eat, follow me.”
“So, you did that to yourself, right?”
The question was finally asked as they lingered over cups of coffee at the kitchen table. Viggo didn’t answer for a long time, only finally – calmly -- offering his nod as he looked the younger man directly in the eye.
“Why, Vig? Is this… are you… should I be more worried than I already am, mate?”
His awkward concern made Viggo chuckle a little. He stood up quickly and pulled off his shirt, doing it all in one motion as though he had to do it before he lost his nerve.
“It helps me. And I’ve done it before – just not in a long time. It’s not that big of a deal…and it’s not something I can really explain, okay? But no, I’m not suicidal. And no, I’m not insane. It’s not about anything like that, okay?”
He extended a bare arm toward Orlando, pointing out an odd trapezoid of lighter flesh right in the crook of his elbow.
“That was a spot I used a lot. Easy to hide. Ended up with a noticeable scar though which wasn’t intentional. There are other scars from it. But they’re not very noticeable, especially here.” He smirked a little as he indicated his torso, his chest hair clearly a good camouflage. But Orlando could now see faint tracery of white lines against his more tanned skin. The younger man's forehead creased as he imagined the pain that all of these injuries had caused his friend and he looked up at him with a great sadness.
“But why do you hurt yourself, Vig? I don’t understand.”
“It’s just what I do. Don’t worry about it, Orli. It’s okay.”
Orlando stared at him for a long time, his expression of concern never wavering. Finally he sighed and changed the topic.
“Sean needs you. Can you help?”
The other man looked at him blankly before shaking his head and responding with a firm, “No.”
Orlando’s eyes widened and for the first time since he’d been there, he felt pure anger.
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘No’? He’s your friend. He’s a wonderful man. You know that, Viggo! And he is in pain – and he needs you and you and I both know that he will die before he admits to needing anyone! He’s fucking killing himself, mate. Don’t tell me you don’t care!”
Orlando watched the battle going on in Viggo. The man clearly cared, but he wasn’t going to give in to this for reasons the younger man couldn’t understand.
“Viggo – fuck, mate! It’s Sean! Our Beanie. You know what a good man he is, and how strong and solitary he can be when he’s hurting. Like he was when he went through the divorce in New Zealand. We were there for him then, Vig. And we should be now. Come on, yeah?”
Catching Viggo’s gaze as he finished his thought, he sensed the indecision in him. The expression on the American’s face had an element of loss and of worry, too, but also there was resigned defeat. He looked down as though steeling himself for what was to come next and then he looked at Orlando and spoke earnestly.
“You love him, Orlando. I see it. I can’t be there for him. I… I can’t. And he wouldn’t want it even if I could. You need to be there for him, to help him through whatever this is. You’ll need to help him, to be there with him.”
Orlando suddenly knew what Viggo was saying, what he was giving him permission to do. It was both an admission of the end of something between himself and Sean but also clearly an endorsement of Orlando trying to fill some void with the other man. Disbelief and anger overwhelmed him and he knew he was glaring into Viggo’s face, willing him to back down, to change what he was saying. He never felt so helpless as he did when he saw something flicker behind those pale blue eyes. A challenge was lost, a desire abandoned, and with it went a huge part of whom he’d always believed Viggo to be.
“I will go back to him, Viggo,” he said shakily. "I’ll be the friend to him that you won’t be. Because he needs someone, yeah? But know this, mate. I know that you need someone, too. I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help you... how to get in when you’ve pushed me out.”
“I’m fine, Orlando. There is no reason for you to be worried about me,” Viggo said in a flat unarguable tone that Orlando argued anyway.
“Don’t lie to me, Viggo. At least give me that. For the friendship we’ve had – and that I want to continue to have – don’t fucking lie to me.”
Viggo turned, pulling his shirt back on and facing out the kitchen window. Finally he quietly said, “He needs you, Orlando. Go. Please.”
When Orlando spoke again, his voice almost brought out the father in Viggo. The younger man sounded sad and somewhat lost, but as he continued to speak, his resolve became clearer and Viggo stayed turned away from him. The tone reassured him. Orlando would take care of Sean and all would be okay.
“Vig, I’m here for you, too, okay? The thought of you hurting yourself makes me sick… sad… and pissed, too, you dumb fuck. But you know I love you and I’m your friend now and always, yeah?”
He spoke to the silent back across the room, expecting no response and getting none. Not until he asked his final question before leaving.
“Do you want me to let you know what is going on?”
“I need for you to. Please.” He heard the tremor in Viggo’s voice and couldn’t stop it from replaying in his mind as he drove away.
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Date: 2005-09-24 07:41 pm (UTC)Heh. Then I reminded myself that this is just a story, and had to laugh at myself. Good work, if I'm forgetting about Reality and wanting to smack somebody! ;D
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Date: 2005-09-25 01:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-09-25 08:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-10-12 06:42 pm (UTC)I think it might help to imagine it's a movie in which Vig, Bean and Orli are just acting. Yeah, that's what I'll do. Hope you don't mind. Certainly makes me want to see the next 'scenes' asap...!
*big hugs*