i would like to spend an afternoon
Orlando discovered a long time ago that Viggo is easy to be found, when you don't really need to find him – he's up in the hills, painting or savaging the garden, or he's actually answering his phone for once, or he's just lounging about in any other number of places he should be. It's when you really want to find Viggo that he disappears completely, leaving no trace and nothing but the pre-programmed robotic greeting on his cell phone.
This makes Orlando insane, and he inevitably ends up leaving long, rambling, pissed-off messages for Viggo, which Viggo probably never hears.
It's just – he's got a couple of weeks between shoots, and he's bought this stupid camera because he liked the photos that Viggo took in New Zealand so much and he thought he might want to take his own and he just wants Viggo to teach him how to use it.
Orlando pauses at this point, and he knows his breathing will sound heavy and frustrated on the recording. He hangs up the phone without saying goodbye.
He doesn't even want to think about how many half-finished, childish messages he has left for Viggo, because then he just feels stupid.
Viggo does not pound on doors at 3 AM or throw empty beer bottles through open windows to attract Orlando's attention. He just turns up, as easily as he disappears.
Orlando wakes suddenly before dawn and when he steps onto the porch with a cup of tea to watch the sunrise, Viggo is sitting in one of his rocking chairs, smoking a cigarette and watching the horizon turn pink and gold.
Orlando sinks to the boards of the porch with a sigh. He rests his head on Viggo's thigh and Viggo drops a hand to the back of his neck.
He'd been dreaming of Viggo, sun-browned and sturdy, standing in his kitchen cooking something that might or might not be edible. In his dream, though, it smelled delicious, and the memory of that is burned into Orlando's nose.
It's cool, still, the sun not quite up and he presses his face against the warmth of Viggo's leg, Viggo's fingers tangled in his hair. It doesn't smell like his dream, but like smoke and whiskey and dirt and horses and turpentine; complicated smells, like Viggo.
He opens his mouth and means to say, "Where've you been?"
Instead: "I dreamt about you."
Viggo's silence is no surprise. They sit, Viggo smoking and crushing butts beneath his heels on the warped porch boards, the denim of Viggo's jeans warm and scratchy-soft under Orlando's cheek, until the sun is full over the horizon. Then Viggo rises and stretches, dislodging Orlando. He drops the crumpled half-pack of Winstons into Orli's lap, steps around him, and disappears through Orlando's front door, the screen slapping loudly behind him.
Orlando reaches for the matches, resting on the arm of the rocking chair, and smokes a fag silently. He stretches when he's finished, and goes to take a shower.
When he's finished washing off the scent of sleep, he pads, dripping, with a towel around his waist, through the first floor of his house, following the scent of something frying in the kitchen and an undeniable curiosity about where Viggo's been.
Viggo's standing at the stove, grease spitting in a frying pan, an unbroken egg in his hand. He doesn't turn when Orlando walks in, or when Orlando pours a cup of coffee, standing hip to hip with him. "Over easy?" Viggo says.
He's cracked the egg into the pan before Orlando answers; he didn't really have to ask.
Their plates are empty except for a smear of runny egg yolk on Viggo's, and a pile of crusts from Orlando's toast teetering precariously against the edge of his plate. Orlando wants to ask where Viggo's been, why he's here, but there's no way to say it without sounding stupid. Orlando hates sounding stupid.
Viggo's reading yesterday's newspaper and not looking at him; Orlando's drinking a third cup of coffee. It's all strangely domestic and slightly unreal.
When he sets the mug down and stands up, Viggo looks up. "You called me," he says, as though everything were that simple.
It is never that simple, but sometimes you can pretend it is. Orlando's on his back on the kitchen table before he knows it, and he can feel the sticky egg from Viggo's plate against the back of his neck, in his hair.
He doesn't care because Viggo's mouth is hot and wet, and Viggo has somehow, somewhere, lost his shirt and there's a mile of broad, strong back to dig his fingers into.
Viggo's strong, rough palm strokes his cock until Orlando thinks he'll go mad, thrusting against him, and the release, sticky, violent, gorgeous, is that blissfully simple.
His plate shattered on the floor, and Orlando has to step around the pieces and crumbs of toast. He's still naked; his towel has vanished to a magical place that isn't anywhere in the kitchen. Viggo's not in the kitchen; he's sacked out on the couch with his shirt off, top button of his jeans undone, flipping through a magazine.
Orlando knows that Viggo's not the type to fuck and run, but his heart gives a little jump of relief all the same.
Viggo looks up, sees him, tosses the magazine away. Orlando can't do anything but go to him.
They drowsed on the couch for hours, warm, sticky, naked. The sunlight shifted from the east to brilliant streaks streaming in from overhead to mid-afternoon western light, still, subtle and clean. Viggo offered to make lunch; Orlando pinned him down and kissed him quiet – there were better things to do than eat.
The day wandered past without their interference; like one of Dom's stupid t-shirts, Orlando thought – life is what happens when you're making other plans.
Chances are that you'll miss something when you're not looking, but chances also are that you'll find something you didn't expect to begin with.