a.

They're screaming, mouths wide open, occasional glimpses of tongue showing. Orlando wonders why they aren't afraid of flies. Bees. Hornets. Who knows what else can get trapped in there if only you open your mouth wide enough. Then again, it's probably too cold and wet for flies and bees and hornets.

He takes a step to the left, wraps his cloak tighter around himself, reaches for another pen. His hair is wet with rain. One strand escaped his ponytail and is now curled against his cheek.

Another autograph, one hundred and fifty-three, another, one hundred and fifty-four, screams in his ear, and he can make out his name, words, almost incoherent, blending in with those of other fans. Orlandocouldyouplease, ohmygodIcan'tbelieve, Iloveyou, pleaseOrlandoplease.

They don't give him a chance to talk to them, would probably faint if he tried to. The noise, the flow, the movement, it reminds him of dancing, feels as if he's signing autographs to the rhythm of their screams. Ha! Shimmy, hip twist! Give 'em a heart attack! Work it, baby! Damn it, where's Dom the one time he's needed? Together, they could cause a riot. Or, alternatively, a mass panic.

The screams pick up in volume, and Legolas would have been deaf by now. Orlando takes a second to contemplate the advantages of ear plugs, but that'd lessen the experience, so everything's really quite fine the way it is. He turns, looks for the source of --

Karl! There's Karl! Whoo!

Orlando blindly hands back a pen, waves and smiles one last time. Flashes of cameras in his face -- click click click --, then he turns and saunters over, wraps himself around Karl and receives a tight hug, the momentary brush of lips against his cheek in return.

Karl buries his hand in Orlando's hair -- long and curly and rather annoying at times --, grins as he tucks a strand out of the ponytail. "Girly girl."

Orlando smiles, flutters his lashes rapidly. "Kiss me, my fair prince."

For a moment, Karl's expression changes into one of serious contemplation before the grin takes over. "Feel like giving all these people a show, do you?"

"Well." A look to the other side of the street. Orlando waves and is rewarded with brightwhite flashes. He turns back to Karl. "They deserve one for waiting this long in the cold."

"Heartless bastard." Karl laughs, slings an arm around Orlando's shoulder. Screams fade as they enter the foyer; dry, warm, brightly lit, luxurious. Expensive furiture, wood sleek and polished. Dark red velvet. Quite a contrast to where the fans are waiting, and Orlando can't help but think that if it weren't for his luck, he'd be out there with them. One of them. Just another fan.

The scent of Karl's aftershave fills Orlando's senses as he turns his head to place a kiss on Karl's cheek. Something Hugo, if Orlando remembers correctly. Karl's embrace tightens for a moment, tone teasing, affectionate. "You know they'd be heartbroken if they saw you kissing me."

"You think so?" Orlando asks, just when John smacks him over the head. Freak. Why is the dwarf taller than he is? That's just not right. Orlando glares.

John, apparently in good spirits and balancing a glass of champagne in his hands, snorts. "How many?"

"One hundred and," a momentary pause to think. Then, "seventy-two."

And just like that, John's face changes, horror replacing satisfaction. "I will not be outdone by an elf!"

Orlando grins, watches John go back outside to sign more autographs, then looks around. After a goodbye clap, Karl latches on to Bernhard, both of them in immediate discussion, gesticulating wildly. Andy's smiling for the press, a microphone under his nose, and yeah, he absolutely deserves all the attention.

Turning his head, Orlando freezes for a tenth of a second, relishes the familiar tug. Viggo's eyes meet his, brighten, the immediate smile soft and fond. Their routine. Orlando knows it by heart, wonders, sometimes, if it's a special Viggo-Orlando-thing, or if it's simply Viggo.

He crosses the distance, polished parquet beneath his shoes, shining and reflecting yellowish light. Then his hands are in Viggo's hair, and the wrinkles surrounding Viggo's eyes deepen.

A close-up of blue. Bright, clear, almost a little green from this close. Their foreheads touch.

"Still not king?" Orlando asks.

Viggo's chuckle is warm, quiet, soft. Utterly Viggo. "Unfortunately, no. And what kind of trashcan did you spend the night in?"

"Why, want me to make some room for you?" Orlando winks, releases Viggo's hair to turn them both into the flash of cameras. Rough cloth, the warmth of Viggo's skin seeping through his suit and transferring to Orlando's palms, first-hand contact only where Orlando's fingers are touching Viggo's neck. "Also, don't insult the hair. At least it's washed."

"Was that an invitation?"

Their eyes meet, lock. Similar grins spread.

The possibility's always been there, a distant knowledge that Orlando didn't dare examine too closely.

b.

Elijah clung to his back, both arms wrapped around Orlando's neck, legs locked around his waist, and since all attempts to get rid of the unexpected burden had been futile so far, Orlando gave in and steadied Elijah's weight with his own hands. Behind them, Dom and Billy approached in a rather similar fashion. Or rather, Dom was the one who did the active approaching.

Sean, grinning, opened the door for them. "Grand first impression you'll give, guys."

"He'll have to get used to it soon enough," John grumbled. "Better the poor fellow knows right away what he's in for."

"If only I had known sooner..." The wistful tone in Sean Bean's voice sounded rather fake.

"Ah, suck it up," Elijah yelled over his own shoulder, "you know you love us." Then they were out of the dim hallway and in Peter's office, bright due to large windows, a wild disarray of sheets and folders and pictures covering every inch of the large desk. Two heads turned.

"Glad to see you." Peter, residing on his chair, merely grinned and nodded. Surprise? Not anymore. Orlando was fairly certain that by this point, they could have danced flamenco on his desk, and Peter would watch in mild amusement. Let the kids play.

"I just wanted to introduce all of you to Viggo Mortensen." Peter shoved a few sheets aside, leaned back, completely at ease. "Our new Aragorn. He just arrived."

"Hello." The second man in the room -- Viggo, right -- got up, casual clothes slightly crumpled, eyes hair lashes bright. His gaze was clear, and Orlando wondered if Peter had made the right decision. Not because of the appearance but, well... Viggo's voice was soft and quiet, lacking the grim determination Orlando had pictured to be an integral part of Aragorn.

"Hey!" Elijah slid to the floor, and Orlando used his newly regained freedom to grasp the offered hand. Palm against palm, sudden warmth flooding him. Viggo's pulse was strong and regular beneath his fingertips, and Orlando found that his doubts had vanished.

Viggo smiled.

a.

"So, the girlfriend's gone, right? Back in Britain." The content of Dom's glass sways dangerously. Orlando watches and hopes it will spill. Something to freshen up your average after-show party. "And he's moping, miserable, moody and just generally unbearable."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Orlando knows this story. And is not too keen on Dom sharing it. Not keen at all.

"So one night, we decided to just --"

Orlando cuts Dom off in mid-sentence. "We'd all gotten pretty wasted that night, played some pool, and it was quite --"

"Dom was just telling a story." Elijah's grin is about as evil as Sauron and Saruman combined, goes perfectly with the Dark Forces poster that's been put up on the wall behind him, a little above Elijah's head. "Not nice to interrupt, Orli."

"As I was saying, one night, we just grabbed him, stripped him naked and --"

Fuck. Think quickly. "Lij," Orlando smiles sweetly, bats his lashes. Distraction technique. "Wasn't that also the night you ran into that post, you know, and you sort of toppled over and--"

Dom raises his voice to be heard even over the flow of conversations that surrounds them. "Got him naked and kicked him out into the snow, just like that. Fucking cold it was, so we closed the door in his face and he was just --"

"Please, Dom." A panicked glance around, and Orlando sees that not too far away, two reporters look rather interested. They're leaning against a wall, pose nonchalant, but their ears seem to have grown considerably in the course of the last few seconds. Dumbo and Dumbo the Second.

"Then don't interrupt me," Dom says, and Orlando wants to strangle him. Bastard.

"Okay. Just... lower your voice, okay?"

"Deal." Dom's smirk rivals Elijah's smile, as far as the level of involved evilness goes. Fine couple they'd make. They could probably take over the world, especially since Elijah still has the One Ring.

"We," Dom turns back to his audience, "let him freeze out there for almost two minutes. Quite a sight he was, too. Pounding on the door, glaring, gloriously naked, sun shining down on him."

Elijah laughs, wraps an arm around Orlando's waist. "It was fantastic."

"You know," Orlando frowns, "I could have frozen to death out there."

"Wimp." There's a definite teasing quality to Billy's voice. "When we let him back in, he was shaking, and we just grabbed him, all four of us, and wrestled him to the floor in front of the fireplace."

A glance reveals that the reporters have turned away. Thank god. Since Orlando guesses that some humor is the best way to deal with the situation, he winks at Andy before he leans forward to stare at Dom. "Sneaky little hobbitses! Wicked, tricksy, false!"

"Yes, preciousss," Andy agrees. It never ceases to amaze Orlando how quickly he just slips into the Gollum voice. "False. They will hurt you."

"We didn't hurt him," Billy says. He swirls the wine in his glass, dark red liquid, round and round and round. Just watching makes Orlando dizzy. "We just held him down, and boy, he really was cold all over. Shivering."

"Wonder why," Orlando mutters.

"Can't deny that it helped, though." Dom again. "Snow, then warming up at the fire and a massage by yours truly, and you were completely relaxed and out of your funky mood."

"Well." Orlando decides to give up any and all hope of telling distracting stories about Elijah and drunken encounters with street lights. If there's no way out, you better make the best of it. His index finger dances on Dom's chest to a rapid rhythm, beat inconsistent. "Betcha you didn't really care about my mood at all. You just wanted me all naked and tied up to ogle my ass."

Dom's smile is pure sin. "I get you naked and tied up every night, baby."

Sexual innuendo. Okay, Orlando can deal with that. Back on safe terrain. "But," he splutters, coughs, eyes wide and accusing. "Dom! You promised you'd keep," momentary hesitation, hands clenching, unclenching. Then, "You promised to keep us a secret."

"Orli? You... You're cheating on me?" Elijah, eyes sparkling, irises catching warm light, immediately falls into his role. His tone is horrified. "I thought I was your only one! Oh my god, my heart is breaking." He clutches his chest with both hands. Drama queen, Orlando thinks. Grins. "Ripped apart," Elijah tells him, gaze serious and earnest. "Torn into tiny little pieces." Voice rising for effect. "Bleeding, I tell you, bleeding! Can't you see what you're doing to me?"

Damn, but Elijah's good. Teary eyes, quivering lip, sad frown, he's got it all down. Of course, he's still the only person Orlando knows to eat cheese, ketchup and crisps for breakfast -- all at once -- but, yeah. Elijah's a Natural Born Drama Queen. Gotta respect that.

"Wait, Lij." A sip of dark red wine disappears into Billy's mouth, one drop clinging to his lips, glistening. A quick tongue darts out to lick it off. "You and... Orli?" Sorrowful lines are creasing Billy's forehead. "But..."

They're attracting looks and raised eyebrows, but that's about it. Conversations don't stop, no one wanders over to make sure everything's alright. Orlando guesses that by now, people are used to their antics. Well, there's been enough time to adjust.

"I'm sorry, Billy, I just can't help it." Elijah sniffles dramatically. "He's my everything. And now he took my heart and ran away with it."

Dom nods with the air of a proud father. "Yeah, I just bought him his new Adidas Marathon Aircushion Something or Another."

Orlando's smack lands on Dom's chest, a soft thud. It's not meant to hurt. "You know, I'm perfectly capable of buying my own clothes."

Softly, "And what a fine job you do with that."

"You were saying?" Orlando turns his head slightly to the left, smiles. Sugar, sugar honey, pumpkin pie...

The smile Viggo offers in return is just as sweet. Innocent. "Nothing."

A satisfied nod. "Thought so." Held in place by Dom, Orlando's palm is still pressed against Dom's chest, the material of Dom's shirt silky beneath his fingertips. Orlando twists, bends his hand at the wrist until Dom has to let him go, albeit reluctantly.

"Oh, Lij." Apparently, Billy's not heartbroken enough to set his glass of wine down on the floor. Instead, he hands it to Viggo, the transaction accompanied by a threatening frown. Drink and die, Orlando thinks. He watches, grinning, as Billy gets down on one knee, kilt spreading like a skirt, and reaches for Elijah's hand. "Lij. Elijah, star of my many sleepless nights!"

"Gods." The black of her dress highlights the paleness of Liv's skin, makes it seem almost translucent. "And it gets worse, still."

"Can't get much worse than this," Andy says. There might be a hopeful note to his voice.

"Oh, it can." Viggo waits for Billy to look away, carefully sips at the wine. Grimaces. "You haven't been around all of them for quite as long as I have."

"Long enough." Andy raises his sparkling wine in a mock salute.

f.

Two glasses of wine, one almost empty, in between them a chess board. Viggo was losing.

Kind of tired, kind of too restless to consider sleep as a real option, Orlando leaned against the doorframe, studied the tilt of Viggo's head, the strands of hair falling into Viggo's eyes, partly shielding his face. A small frown, eyebrows drawn together in thought. Outside, snow was falling in thick flakes, slow and hypnotizing, dancing in front of a gray sky.

Sean Bean moved his castle to D4, leaned back in his chair and smiled. Triumphant. Viggo's black queen was trapped on E4.

Orlando caught Viggo looking at him, held his gaze for a moment. Viggo's lips twisted into a tiny smile. Then Viggo turned back to the chessboard, head bent, chin propped on the palm of his hand. Orlando disappeared into the kitchen.

There were three bottles of wine on the table, two Spanish, one French. Their labels were reduced to black white gold, the writing curved. Condensation was glittering on the glass.

"Hey, Sean?" Orlando called into the living room, got a distracted

"Yeah?" in reply.

"While Vig's busy losing as gracefully as possible," tapping the stem of his glass with one finger, Orlando leaned his hip against the table, "could you come here and check if the temperature of the Bordeaux's okay?"

Scratch of a chair over parquet, then the sound of footsteps. Sean, hair still slightly damp from an earlier shower, came into the kitchen, one hand buried in the front pocket of comfortable pants. The decision that the temperature of the Bordeaux was, indeed, okay took a minute, finding the corkscrew -- hidden under an empty pizza-box -- took another two.

When Sean and Orlando came back into the living room, Sean carrying the bottle, Orlando's fingers curled around his glass, Viggo turned briefly and smiled.

The black queen had moved to F6.

a.

"Sean." Stab; Elijah's finger has found its victim in Sean's chest. Stab. "As my Sam, you have to defend my honor and kill Dom for taking Orli away from me."

"Well, I could kill Orli," Billy suggests brightly.

"Hey!" Orlando glares at Billy, receives a kiss blown his way. Oh, the pain!

"No." A dismissive shake of Elijah's head. "You know that I can't live without him."

"You know it, baby." The skin of Elijah's cheek is silky where Orlando places a peck on it. He's always suspected that Elijah uses some sort of expensive moisturizer. Gucci. Davidoff. Do they even sell moisturizer? Highly doubtful.

"Yeah, but," Billy shoves Orlando aside, but his touch is gentle. "He stands in the way of," pause for effect, eyes wide as they look at Elijah, "our true love."

"Billy, you know I really do like you." A blessing gesture as Elijah raises both his hands, palms up, facing the ceiling. "It's not you, it's me..."

Dom's grin is quick. "I don't want nobody else, I love you, there won't be somebody else and that's true..." The melody probably isn't quite right, but Orlando hooks an arm around Dom's neck, joins him for the next line. "Say you'll always be my friend, sweet darling..."

Viggo's hands, effectively closing over both their mouths, prevent any more of what Orlando has to admit is torture, and wait, where did Billy's wine disappear to? Oh. To Karl, apparently.

Orlando squints down at the hand silencing him -- warm, dry skin -- and contemplates his chances of licking his way out of the situation.

Close to zero. Viggo's not that easy to shock.

"Got a better plan." Viggo smiles, and Orlando reconsiders his non-licking policy. Warm breath is fanning over his cheek, and it's an almost automatic move to lean slightly into the weight of Viggo's arm, into Viggo's warmth. Nice. "I take Orli, then Billy and Dom can hook up, which leaves Frodo with Sam. You don't mind, Christine, do you?"

"Oh, of course not." She returns Viggo's grin, leans back against Sean, comfortable. Orlando is startled to discover that it reminds him of... yeah. Um.

Christine laughs quietly. "I hear husband-sharing's the new trend in Hollywood."

Dom has somehow managed to pry Viggo's hand off. He presses an invisible buzzer, smiles triumphantly. "What is Jennifer Lopez, Ben Affleck and Matt Damon?"

"You watch way too much tv," Orlando tells Dom as soon as Viggo allows him to speak again. Viggo's arm is still around his shoulders, though, its weight comfortable rather than annoying.

"Dom?" Billy stares at Viggo, points first at Dom, then at himself. "Dom and me?"

"No way." Some waiter -- black suit, white shirt, black shoes -- passes them, and Dom grabs a glass of sparkling wine off the tray he's carrying. "I'm far too cool for Billy."

"Sparkling wine doesn't qualify as cool, Dom."

"Cunt."

Elijah stretches. "Oh, speaking of sleeping arrangements --"

"We were?" Orlando asks.

"Speaking of sleeping arrangements," Elijah gives him a pointed look, "I'd say we all spend the night together, the whole Fellowship, and then some. Drink, dance, catch up. You know."

Billy retrieves his wine from Karl, eyes it suspiciously. "Orli's flat?"

"Definitely," Viggo says. "More room than at the hotel."

Ah. Um. Nice of Viggo to decide for him.

Orlando throws a reproachful glance Viggo's way, but then again, it's not as if he really minds. "Yeah. Okay, I guess. I have to take the plane tomorrow, though, for the Pirates." Caribbean warmth, ocean, and wow, yes, sometimes being an actor really just rocks.

"That's okay." Viggo's arm tightens for a moment, fingertips dancing lightly over Orlando's shoulder blade. "We'll just have to let ourselves out and make sure that the water isn't running."

"If I come back and find my flat flooded," Orlando tries to squeeze a hint of threat into his tone, "you lot are going to pay."

"Deal."

"You got booze?" Billy asks.

Orlando made sure that the fridge is full. The cellar, too. Just... in case. Right. He smirks. "Sure." Stupid question, really.

"Music?"

"No Smashin' Pumpkins, Lij."

"Damn," Elijah says, expression one of mock horror, almost at the same time as Dom grins widely, slaps Orlando on the back.

"Thank God!"

"Orli's place it is, then?" Viggo asks. Receives a number of nods in answer.

"Billy, my old friend," Elijah wraps an arm around Billy's waist, grins, his eyes sparkling, "this will be a night to remember."

h.

Shadows moved in counterpoise to the flickering flames of the fire they had built, dancing over the faces of people, reflected in eyes. Embers glowed orange, a few sparks flying, their brightness fading into darkness. Some blankets were spread out on the ground, but a quick look around proved that all were occupied.

Orlando remained standing close to the flames. A soft sound as he turned his head, the hair of his wig brushing over the tunic. It was barely audible over the flow of conversations. The water in his glass sparkled, caught the firelight as he raised it to his lips.

"We're running out of wood." Karl pushed another log into the fire, sparks flying high before the wild dance of the flames calmed. He glanced up, face bathed in warm light, eyes almost black. "Since you're standing already, up to looking for some, Orli?"

"Sure, no problem." Orlando set his glass down on a rock, hoped that no one would spill it. Oh well. It was only water anyway. "Anyone coming along?"

John looked away from his conversation with Barrie. "Why, Master Elf, afraid to be all alone in the dark?" The words were spoken in Gimli's voice, vocals rolling, and Orlando laughed.

"Never. The trees like me." A short pause as he tucked a strand of long blond hair behind his ear, followed by a lopsided grin. "Unlike certain other beings that shall remain unnamed." He scrunched up his nose as a faint breeze blew some smoke in his face, the scent of burning wood biting, stinging in his eyes.

"I'll come with you." Viggo got up, stretched. After a moment's consideration, he left Anduril lying on the ground. The blade gleamed dangerously, mirrored flames flickering over the metal.

"Look for thick logs," Karl called after them. "We still have some twigs and smaller branches left. What we need is something that takes a while to burn."

The sound of voices faded away as they made their way into the forest until all that remained was the sound of their footsteps, the occasional breaking of twigs beneath their feet. Soft breathing. When Orlando looked back, the only trace of the fire was a faint orange glow, brightening the forest behind them, silhouetting trees. Without the heat of the flames, a sudden chill crept over Orlando's skin, and he rubbed his arms.

"Cold?" Viggo asked, voice quiet.

"A little." Orlando bent to pick up a thick branch, left it on the ground upon finding that it was damp. Burning it would produce too much smoke. "I don't get to wear a cloak like you."

"I don't really need it, so feel free to take it. Only if," the blink of teeth in the darkness as Viggo smiled, "you can deal with the dirtiness of it, of course."

"Wardrobe would kill me." Orlando shook his head, strained to see more than vague shapes of trees and bushes. After looking into the light of the fire, his eyes weren't really used to the dark yet. "But thanks."

An acknowledging nod. "How about we move closer to the lake and search near the shore? There's more light, that should make it easier."

"Sure." Orlando's hand brushed the back of Viggo's cloak as he paused in his steps, looked up. The tip of the trees were outlined black against the dark blue of the sky, the occasional glimmer of stars visible through the leafs. "This really is beautiful."

"You're not going to start singing, are you?" Viggo asked, but his voice was soft, only a slight teasing quality to it. It didn't break the mood.

Orlando smacked him lightly, then let his hand rest on Viggo's upper arm. "You Men are all the same. No sense of beauty."

"I assure you, my fair Elf, that," Viggo smiled, and their eyes met, "the race of Men is perfectly capable of admiring beauty where it exists." The Evenstar around Viggo's neck gleamed with what little light there was.

Comfortable warmth pooled in Orlando's stomach. He returned the smile, leaned a little closer, the hair obscuring part of his face. "Is that so?"

"Definitely," Viggo said. His gaze didn't stray from Orlando's face.

A sharp bite, and Orlando instinctively slapped at the source of annoyance. The mosquito was quicker than his hand, though. They always were. "Fuck."

"What was it?" Viggo sounded amused.

"Damn insects," Orlando complained in a quiet mutter. Anything louder would have felt wrong here. "One should think that the insect-repellant would help at least a little."

Viggo's chuckle was accompanied by a gentle nudge. "Thou shallst not trust promises made in a package text."

"Should have brought some of the Scottish stuff with me." Orlando tilted his head back once more. The distant call of a nocturnal bird echoed through the forest, the last note low and drawn out. "Beats the New Zealand crap any day."

"If you say so." The amusement in Viggo's voice was still audible. "Now, how about we go and gather some of that firewood?"

"Sure." With one hand, Orlando tugged the bandana meant to keep the hair out of his eyes back into place, stifled a half-hearted yawn. "Lead the way, then."

a.

Warm, orange light from two standard lamps. Bodies are sprawled on the floor the couch the chairs, faces relaxed, bottles of beer being passed around. In the background, music is playing quietly on the stereo, piano solos. Orlando comes back into room, balancing more beer and an only half-filled bottle of whiskey in his hands. He nods his thanks when John gets up to take some of the bottles, then sets them down on the small table in front of the couch.

"Oh, come on, you don't trust me enough to buy a few rolls and some bread?" Billy's question seems to be directed at Viggo. With a half-hearted yawn, Orlando sinks to the floor, cross-legged, between Viggo and Karl.

"Quite frankly: no." Viggo tilts his head, looks at Billy. "Knowing you, you won't get up before ten, and that's just too late for me. Besides, Orlando has a plane to catch."

"What's the current topic?" Because he doesn't really feel like getting up yet again, Orlando leans back against the couch -- against Dom's legs, rather -- and wills his bladder to shut up. To his surprise, it obeys. For now.

"Breakfast," Elijah says. The piano piece turns hectic, notes falling like raindrops in rapid succession.

"Breakfast?" Breakfast. Uh. Okay then.

Elijah shrugs, takes a sip of beer. "Billy wants to go to the bakery, Viggo won't let him."

That doesn't really make much sense, does it? Orlando looks to Viggo for an explanation. Uncrossing his legs, he shifts until Dom kicks him, sock-clad foot meeting with his side. Still, Orlando appreciates that Dom was considerate enough not to kick him in the spine.

"I just don't like sleeping in late." Viggo's shoulders lift in a small shrug. The back of his hand presses against Orlando's thigh. It's... vaguely unsettling, but in a good way. "And if there's no breakfast when I get up, my day just starts off badly. It's also why I usually don't go to invitations for breakfasts, by the time they start, I'm just about ready to eat lunch."

A moment of silence, only the music in the background. Then Orlando laughs. "And now," he smirks at Billy, "it's time to talk about your neurosis."

"Thanks for understanding." The tone of Viggo's voice is dry. Soft chuckles answer him.

Andy yawns widely, not even bothering to raise a hand. Sean nudges him and everything is back to status quo: a constant rustle of clothes, people shifting, bottles clinking, faint smell of beer and whiskey lingering in the air as liquid sloshes in glasses. Miranda follows Andy's example and yawns, but she hides it behind a hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Orlando catches Viggo's smile and returns it. The warmth that coils in the pit of his stomach, a pleasant tingle, doesn't surprise him. It's nothing out of the ordinary.

e.

Without warning, his blanket was gone, cold air hitting his skin. Orlando sat up in bed, found Viggo standing a few feet away, face unreadable in the darkness. Um.

"Viggo?"

"Morning." Viggo's voice was quiet, followed by a white blink of teeth, gleaming.

Orlando rubbed a hand over his head, pressed knuckles against his eyes and let his head rest on arms propped on his drawn-up legs. "What time is it?"

"Almost six." The sound of movement, Viggo's footsteps on the floor as he came closer, placed the blanket back on the bed. "I made breakfast already, it's in the kitchen."

"You..." Six in the fucking morning? Orlando's brain processed the information and came up with a disgusted shriek as the only adequate reply. "Viggo, we have the day off, and you wake me up at fucking six o'clock?"

"Stop cursing," was the gentle reprimand, and Orlando felt like hitting something. Preferably something that was a part of Viggo.

"I'm going back to sleep," he said. Laid back down, drew the blanket up over his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. His back to Viggo. Six in the fucking morning! Some people...

"I've been awake since five." The vague amusement coloring Viggo's voice did nothing to soothe Orlando's irritation. "If you hurry up, we can make it just in time to catch the sunrise."

"Wait." Orlando rolled over, blinked up at the ceiling. Glanced over at Viggo. Frowned.

All he saw was a relief of black and not-quite black, the darkness prohibiting sight of more than dark shapes. No colors; it wasn't bright enough for the rods to stark working. Was it rods, even? Orlando had never been particularly fond of his Biology lessons. And, uh.

"You woke me up just to watch the freaking sunrise? I get that every morning after make-up, Vig."

Viggo leaned against the doorframe, his arms relaxed at his sides. "Ever tried surfing when the sun is just coming up and the air's still fresh and clean?"

Oh.

Another moment of soaking up the warmth of his blanket, then Orlando slowly sat up, set both feet on the floor. It was cold, but he could smell the scent of coffee wafting in from the kitchen, and the first trace of approaching dawn turned the eastern edge of the dark blue sky outside into a lighter blue.

He got up, wrapped his arms around his naked torso and searched the room for a protecting t-shirt. Viggo threw him one, and after putting it on, Orlando leant over, kissed Viggo's cheek, felt the scratch of stubble, and smiled.

"Thank you."

Again, the blink of white teeth. "You're welcome."

a.

He runs into Viggo outside of the bathroom. Literally runs into Viggo, that is. He's not really drunk -- pleasantly tipsy, maybe -- and neither is Viggo, so that's good because it means they don't actually fall. Doesn't mean he can't hold on to Viggo, though. Doesn't mean they're not suddenly in very close contact, bodies pressed together, warmth exchanged. Intimate.

And because Orlando's pleasantly tipsy, but not drunk, it seems like the only logical thing to do to meet Viggo's eyes and just... kiss him. Because he's done it plenty of times already, just not really.

There's a moment of apparent surprise when Viggo's grip on him tightens, Viggo's body freezing, lashes sweeping down, confused. Orlando licks Viggo's lips, and Viggo's mouth

opens.

Permission, Orlando thinks, strangely giddy. His tongue meets Viggo's, wraps around it. Feels natural. Still natural when Viggo makes a sound that seems a lot like a growl and pushes him against the wall, traps Orlando's hands above his head. And then...

And then Viggo kisses him.

Really kisses him.

Kisses him as in, well. Devours. Marks. Claims. Something.

Fucking porn movie kiss, that.

Breathless, Orlando panting, arching away from the wall, straining for contact. Hips rubbing, denim against denim, and gods, yes, this is what he wanted, this, exactly this. Jesus fucking Christ. Is this how Viggo kissed Liv, too? Orlando doesn't think so because he's fairly sure that Liv wouldn't have been able to remember her lines if he had.

"Whoa," Orlando says, softly and against Viggo's lips as soon as the need for air gets just too much and their kiss breaks. Then, again and just for good measure, "Whoa."

Viggo laughs, but it's not a mocking laugh. Or, um. At least Orlando doesn't think it is.

Viggo's rapid pulse assures him it isn't.

Laughter floats into the corridor from the living room, and if anyone were to come out and see them right now, that person would most likely get the wrong idea. The right idea, rather. Or so Orlando hopes.

"Why did we wait so long to do this?" Viggo asks, voice quiet, tone serious. Orlando exhales slowly. So he's not alone in this.

Freeing one of his hands, he buries it in Viggo's hair, smiles. "Maybe I wanted you to wash up before shagging you."

"Who says I would have let you?" The amusement is audible.

Orlando reaches down, lightly squeezes Viggo's erection through thick jeans. Watches bright lashes flutter before he leans forward slightly, places a kiss on Viggo's cheek. "This does."

"I see." Viggo's lids lower. "So, what do we do about it?"

Reflexively, probably due to some kind of Freudian impulse, Orlando's gaze flickers over to the door leading into his bedroom. The twitching of the corners of Viggo's mouth tells Orlando that his slip has been noticed.

"Bedroom, huh?" This time, Orlando is absolutely sure that Viggo's smile isn't meant to mock. Viggo releases his hold, and Orlando rubs his wrist, feels blood flow back into it. He tucks one of his hands in the back pocket of Viggo's jeans, brings their bodies flush together once more and smiles.

"Please."

It's not far, really, only a few steps, and when the door closes behind them, Orlando finds himself pinned against it. Fumbles behind his back for the key, just to make sure there won't be any unwelcome interruptions. The metal feels cold in his hands, and the doorhandle digs into his skin, just below the small of his back. He hardly even notices.

Viggo's body is outlined by what little light comes in through the windows, curtains open, shivering slightly in a breeze. Maybe, Orlando thinks distantly, maybe they should close the curtains. Again, just to make sure.

The sight of a darkened street, the windows in the houses on the other side nothing but black holes. The Thames, not too far away, is visible only through gaps between buildings, water glittering as it reflects the lights of the city. In the near-darkness, broken only by the light of a streetlamp a short distance away, Viggo's eyes seem almost black, the shadows on his face pronounced.

"You know," Viggo runs one hand down Orlando's side, reaches the waistband of Orlando's jeans and slips his hand beneath Orlando's shirt, strokes the skin of his stomach. Viggo's tone is conversational. "I still haven't forgiven you for pouring that salt in my wine. It was a good wine."

Eh? Orlando decides not to care about the purpose hidden in Viggo's words, instead gasps and allows his eyes to close when Viggo's finger slowly circles one of his nipples, the touch light, teasing. The solid weight of the door behind him keeps Orlando upright.

"Also," Viggo continues, and there's a smile in his voice, "I didn't exactly appreciate that you reprogrammed my cell phone that one time. Calling a sex line instead of Henry wasn't what I'd call a pleasant surprise."

Actually, sex sounds pretty damn good right now. Orlando opens one eye. "The cell phone was Lij." He fists Viggo's shirt, tugs him closer. Viggo follows willingly. "Asked him to do it because I didn't know how to do it myself."

"You're hopeless with modern technology." A light laugh, Viggo presses a closemouthed kiss to Orlando's lips. Chaste. Orlando doesn't want chaste. "I still hold you responsible."

The crashing sound of something heavy from the living room, a few silent seconds before laughter follows, muffled by walls. Orlando decides not to care. He busies himself with the difficult task of opening the button of Viggo's pants, dragging down the zipper. It protests at first, then gives, suddenly no more resistance than melted butter would offer a knife.

Six flicks of Orlando's wrist, buttons sliding out of their holes, and Viggo's shirt is history, gone gone gone.

"Consider wine and cell phone righteous revenge," Orlando trails one hand down Viggo's chest, the skin smooth, warm to his touch, "for the belly-slapping incident."

"Ah." Viggo's sharp intake of breath as Orlando's hand slips into his boxers is pure delight. There's a momentary pause as Viggo apparently tries to concentrate. Orlando grins.

Then doesn't, because his shirt is being pushed up and Viggo licks a slow line, wet, cool as soon as air hits overheated skin, from the column of Orlando's throat down to where loose-fitting jeans stop all further exploration. Orlando shivers.

"But," Viggo sounds as if he's very much back in control now, and Orlando, head thrown back, has troubles understanding the words. Oh, fuck. "Billy, Dom and Sean were in on that, too."

Billy, Dom and... Oh, right. "What, you think I let them get away with it just like that?" It comes out slightly breathless because, yeah, that's Viggo, on his knees, unbuttoning Orlando's jeans and just... oh, fuck. The door is cold against the bare skin of his back.

"Okay." Viggo smiles up at him, then straightens. Orlando swallows as a large hand cups his cheek and Viggo leans in for a slow, gentle kiss that gradually turns wicked, slick and hot with the added flicker of a tongue. Just enough to make Orlando moan.

The sound seems to make Viggo pull back, the smile just as soft and fond as before. "In that case, consider this the righteous revenge for the righteous revenge."

Orlando inhales slowly. "What are you gonna do?" He's proud that he hasn't lost his ability to form halfway coherent sentences. "Tie me up?"

"Mm." A contemplative pause before Viggo shakes his head. "Beautiful as that might be, I'd rather love to hear you beg."

"Sheesh." Orlando narrows his eyes, and fuck, but he can't believe that they're actually trying to have something vaguely resembling a conversation when they could be naked and on the bed already. He guesses that this is something utterly Viggo. "Power streak much?" he asks, smirks a little while rotating his hips in tiny circles against Viggo's. Long live friction. "Go terrorize some poor subjects in that kingdom of yours."

"Now, where's the challenge in that?" Slow, burning touches distract from Viggo's soft laugh. "And besides," another kiss, brief, more like a shadow of a kiss, really, "as we already established, it's not my kingdom yet."

"Bed?" Orlando suggests, hopeful. He's tired of talking.

The smile that spreads over Viggo's face is answer enough.

c.

There was light and too bright and ouch and wha, huh? Covers gone and like, fuck, cold, what the hell were they... Hey! Hey, no, 's like, no, not. The fuck? Fucking light hurt his eyes, and couldn't they just stop like, dragging him and like, yeah? Um.

"Stop twisting." Viggo's mouth close to his ear, and the words were slurred, breath smelling faintly of something high-proof. Drunk Viggo, then. Drunk Viggo with both arms around his chest, carrying him. Orlando managed to regain enough of a grip on his consciousness to decide that this was Not Good. In big, fat capitals.

Sean Bean, responsible for the difficult task that was making sure that Orlando's legs didn't touch the floor, was frighteningly unstable on his feet. As in, hardly capable of walking a straight line.

"Set me down." Voice still slightly rough from sleep, but yes, Orlando was awake now. And not amused, not amused at all. How the hell had they opened the door to his hotel room?

"Nope." Sean sounded decidedly too chipper for the late hour. Another bad sign. This was just getting worse and worse, wasn't it? At least the stairs did have a railing. Orlando struggled to reach for it, felt smooth wood under his palms and held on to it for all it was worth.

Viggo knocked his hands off almost effortlessly.

"Bastard." Orlando tipped his head back, glared at Viggo from upside down. He was slowly becoming aware of the cool air and his own state of wearing little clothes. Sweat pants, a loose t-shirt. Might just be because he hadn't expected two full-grown and rather drunken men to drag him out of bed in the middle of the night. "Fucking let me go. Wankers!"

Upstairs, two doors opened almost synchronically, and Orlando caught a glimpse of Dom's face and sleep-mussed hair. And the other one had to be --

"Need help?" Billy sounded remarkably awake, considering the late hour and the fact that he wasn't the one who was currently being carried down the stairs. By two drunken men. In the middle of the freaking night, just in case it hadn't been mentioned yet.

Viggo and Sean paused half-step, swaying only very slightly. How calming. Orlando kicked out, which at least earned him a heartfelt curse from Sean. Ha!

"Always," Sean told Billy. The door to Elijah's room opened just when Dom and Billy had caught up, and great, they were going to have a procession now? With Orlando, sacrificial lamb at the altar of their whims. He doubled his struggles against their grips.

"Nu-uh." Viggo's voice again, breath fanning over Orlando's neck, tone pleasantly polite.

Orlando attempted to land his fist somewhere that hurt, but failed. "What the fuck are you gonna do to me?"

No answer.

They had reached the hotel lobby, and fuck, but if they kicked him out into the cold night air, he'd never let them live it down. Chandeliers and darkened wood proved the rather considerable age of the hotel, the ceiling actually covered in stucco. The clerk behind the reception looked up at the disturbance.

Before Orlando could call out for help, a rough hand covered his mouth.

"Don't even think about it." Viggo sounded somewhat more sober now -- the exercise, probably -- and Orlando wasn't sure if he preferred relatively sober Viggo over drunk Viggo. Both had their downsides, at least in moments like this.

Instead of putting even more effort into his fight for freedom, Orlando bit into the palm, smirked triumphantly at the resulting curse, muttered into his hair. Then he was thrown down onto a large sofa, red leather smooth against his back where the shirt had ridden up.

The clerk turned back to looking over some papers. Just a few crazy actors acting on some strange impulse, better leave them to it. Celebrities! -- Or at least that's what Orlando imagined his thoughts to be. Bastard. Maybe he could be sued for failure to give assistance.

If Orlando managed to survive through this.

"Get off my knees!" He glared first at Billy, then at Dom and encountered similar grins. "Fuckers."

Dom actually had the nerve to lean forward, place a kiss on Orlando's cheek. Smile sweetly. "Poor baby."

Orlando was absolutely certain that if his arms hadn't been held in a tight grip, secured over his head by Sean's hands, he would have slapped Dom. And weren't these people supposed to be his friends? Sure didn't seem like it.

Viggo's fingers skimmed over his stomach, tickling slightly, pushing the shirt up to Orlando's chest. The clerk glanced up, distant interest in his gaze. Then the first slap was delivered to Orlando's stomach, and he forgot all about clerks. Strained against his human bonds, instinctively and -- as he found out right away -- rather ineffectively.

Another slap. "Fuck." It wasn't hard enough to really hurt, but what the hell? Huh? Orlando could already see his skin reddening a little, glared up at Viggo. "Fuck you."

The intent concentration on Viggo's face as he studied Orlando's stomach didn't waver. Amusement made the edges of his mouth curl.

a.

The sheets are coarse against his back, feel impossibly rough to his hypersensitive skin. It's the comparison, Orlando guesses. Viggo's soft, almost nonexistent touches; the cotton sheets. Orlando's fingers fist the cloth.

Viggo is outlined by dim light falling in through the window, dawn approaching. Hair disarranged by Orlando's fingers, naked chest an assemblage of concave and convex curves, light and shadows. His eyes are liquid pools of blackened blue as he leans over Orlando, presses him down with the mere weight of his body, smiles and just. Stops moving.

Orlando decides to hate him. Tells him so.

Viggo's gentle chuckle, followed by a brief, openmouthed kiss to Orlando's throat, only adds to the heat pooling in Orlando's stomach. "All you have to do is ask," Viggo says.

"I'm not gonna beg." Voice breaking on the last word because Viggo chooses that moment to grind his hips down once, hard, and damn, that's just not fucking fair. Orlando glares up at Viggo. Not going to give in. Not going to give Viggo the satisfaction.

Bastard.

Viggo's hands skim down Orlando's stomach, tickle the fine hair that leads to... oh god, yes, there. Exactly. Just a few inches lower, please, just...

No.

Not please. No fucking way.

"Righteous revenge," Viggo mutters, only very slightly husky, and then his mouth is covering Orlando's, tongue fluttering, invading, claiming. Without conscious thought, Orlando raises his arms, twists his hands in Viggo's hair. He just... wants. Now.

And then he twists, pushes, rolls them over. Viggo blinks up at him, and oh, yes, much better like this. Much, much better. Bordering on perfect, even.

Orlando pins both of Viggo's hands to the mattress, immobilizes him effectively. Dips his head to the column of Viggo's throat and grins against the tempting skin. "Game over." Licks a slow line up to Viggo's chin, tongues the cleft and tastes traces of salt and sweat and something just slightly bitter. Viggo throws his head back, eyes closed, and then... And then Viggo... yes.

Viggo. Mortensen. moans.

It's a soft sound, low in his throat. Hurt, almost a whimper.

Oh.

Grip easing just slightly, Orlando stares, tries to breathe. That's... blackmail material, yes, but also... whoa.

Viggo's lashes flutter, then his eyes open, gaze bright and clear, and Orlando forgets about blackmail. Instead, he bends his head, mouth meeting Viggo's, both of their eyes open and impossibly close, lashes shivering, colors blurring. Lids drifting shut. On their tongues, the taste of beer mixes with what Orlando thinks is whiskey, just a faint trace of it. Enough to render him dizzy. He doesn't think it's because of the whiskey, though.

A slight shift of his hips, cock brushing Viggo's, heated friction, and Orlando's sure it isn't.

Crescendo, he thinks randomly. Crescendo and oh.

Viggo's hands are clenching reflexively, straining against the hold Orlando has on them. One of them wedges its way to freedom, and when Viggo rolls them over again, Orlando doesn't protest. He spreads his legs in conscious invitation, smiles, bright and genuine.

Viggo's breathing, harsh and irregular, tells him that Viggo's control is gone. All that is left is urgency. And need.

Want.

g.

He was way beyond caring. Couldn't stand her touch, couldn't stand the scent of powder, of fucking make-up and just, fuck this. Fuck it all.

"Fuck off." Voice rough from lack of sleep, exhaustion cold darkness rain, and he could actually feel himself shivering, feel his body shaking, muscles quivering.

"Orlando, I just need to--"

"No!" The violence in his voice was a surprise even to him. "Just fucking leave it, okay?"

"Orlando." Viggo's touch wasn't warm like hers. His hands were just as cold as Orlando's, and for some reason, that made it easier. Bearable. "Orlando," again, repeated quietly, and Orlando turned, thought, for a moment, that there was no ground under his feet, nothing, just air, only air, falling, down, down, darkness and cold and fucking rain.

Then the dizziness disappeared and he was able to see clearly again.

"I just want a bed, Vig." There wasn't any violence in his voice now, not anymore. Just utter exhaustion. "I just... I need some sleep and just, when's the last time I was actually dry? Feels like this fucking rain is engraved in my skin, and no matter how much I try to..."

"I know." Cold, Viggo's embrace tight, Viggo's cloak just as wet as Orlando's tunic. The skin around Viggo's nails had split, was bleeding slightly from being exposed to rain and icy air for hours, and Orlando suddenly felt selfish.

"I'm sorry." He dragged the back of his hand over his eyes, knew that he ruined what little make-up the rain hadn't washed away already. "I just..."

"It's okay, Orlando." And because Viggo's voice was warm and understanding, it really was.

"I should probably apologize." Orlando sighed, glanced at where Kelly stood, her back turned to him. Along with some of the stunt guys and extras, she'd fled from the rain, seeking shelter under a temporary roof built out of umbrellas. Two ukuleles could be heard, and some of the Uruk-Hais were dancing to the rhythm, feet padding over the ground.

It was a way to keep warm.

"I think she understands," Viggo said, and because Orlando listened closely, the exhaustion was apparent in Viggo's voice, too. It was rougher than usual, quieter, the kind of quiet that results from tiredness. The words were pronounced with less care.

"Maybe." Orlando gave a fleeting smile as Craig waved at them, his body wrapped into some kind of isolation blanket, glittering silver. Orlando didn't like them. They warmed a little, yeah, but didn't allow the clothes to dry, instead made the wetness gather inside the blanket, condensation that only served to make it harder afterwards.

"Still," he said, turning back to Viggo, smiling slightly, a mere ghost of a smile. "I owe her an apology."

Viggo didn't answer, but his embrace tightened. Although it didn't really warm him, Orlando felt better.

a.

The glasses aligned on the counter contain remnants of wine, dark red, a vague resemblance to dried blood undeniable. They clink together, sound crystal clear, as Orlando pushes them to one side and hops onto the wooden surface, a glass of orange juice in his hands. He'll leave the cleaning to his guests, just as every good host ought to do.

"You seem awfully cheerful, considering you got about half an hour of sleep."

"Yeah, well." Orlando parts his legs for Viggo to step in between them. "Got laid last night, you know?"

"Did you, now?" Viggo takes the orange juice from his hands. It joins the wine glasses next to the sink, allows Orlando's hands to settle on Viggo's shoulder and tangle in Viggo's hair. Respectively.

"Mhm." Gentle fingers tug the back of Orlando's shirt out of his pants, hands slipping underneath the cloth, stroking. Orlando arches into the touch.

Viggo moves closer, bodies pressing together. His mouth hovers an inch from Orlando's lips, breath hot, eyes smiling. "Good?"

"Not bad, I guess," Orlando says nonchalantly. Artfully lowered lashes, and he licks along the seam of Viggo's lips, tongues the corner of his mouth, feels the slight scratch of stubble.

"Not bad?" Viggo repeats. A frown appears, dark lines creasing his forehead. "What a dead loss, then. I promise that I could do so much better." Fingers wandering over Orlando's spine, Viggo's lips moving against his cheek, leaving damp skin. "Babe, I'd make you scream and beg for more until you'd forget your own name, lost in helpless desire, twisting against me..."

Porn voice, Orlando thinks, and then, uh. Because, greetings from Clichéville.

"Oh yeah, baby," he tilts his head back, looks at Viggo through half-lidded eyes. Viggo returns his gaze, lashes bright and curled, eyes soft, a mixture of amusement and... and not-quite-amusement sparkling in them. "Fuck me against a wall." Orlando smiles, hooks his ankles behind Viggo's thighs, drawing him in. Closer. Always closer. "Come on, hold me up with one hand while you--"

"Ah, shut up, you." The tone is affectionate, but before Orlando can protest -- no little kid, like -- Viggo's lips seem to have tired of exploring the taste of Orlando's cheeks. And, yeah, Viggo's tongue, too. Because, mhm, yes. Tongue. In Orlando's mouth. And warmth. Beats talking any day, this.

The gray light slanting in through the window turns Viggo's hair a darker shade, and Orlando twists his fingers into it, angles Viggo's head into the kiss. His other hand is gripping Viggo's shoulder, nails digging into skin insufficiently protected by the thin cloth of a t-shirt, provoking distant thoughts of bruises.

Shift, curve, kisses turning breathless. Glass shatters.

Orlando rests his forehead against Viggo, takes deep breaths, waits for the staccato of his heart to subside. The orange juice is glittering on the floor, shards of glass in between, catching and reflecting light. One of Viggo's hand is still twisted in Orlando's shirt, and Viggo releases his hold only reluctantly.

"Fuck," Orlando says, but even to his own ears, it doesn't sound very upset. Broken crockery is supposed to bring luck, right? Although, in this case, it probably depends on the definition of crockery.

Viggo's eyes have refocused, his tone is thoughtful. "I probably could, you know."

"What?" Orlando combs a hand through Viggo's hair, sorts the strands with his fingers because it's still tangled from... oh, yeah. Mhmm.

Viggo grins, fingers feathering over Orlando's spine. "Fuck you against a wall."

"You?" The snort is automatic. "Never." Orlando shakes his head. "Harry, maybe. Karl. You? You're smaller than me."

"By an inch, maybe." Amusement makes Viggo's eyes dance, his lips curl. Orlando kisses the smile away before allowing Viggo to continue. "You're really just a lightweight anyway." One of Viggo's hands settles on Orlando's thigh, warm and familiar. "I could."

Orlando laughs against Viggo's mouth, feels their lips brush. "I broke my back once already, and," a sharp look, fingers tugging hard at a single strand of hair, "I have no desire to repeat the experience, thank you very much."

"Just you wait..." Viggo's smile stretches, makes the skin around his eyes crinkle.

Orlando traces the wrinkles with his fingertips. He shakes his head. "Never."

"Cretin."

"It's called realist, love." The scent of beer lingers, drifts over from the living room, separated from the kitchen only by the counter Orlando's sitting on. Empty bottles are aligned on the table in front of the couch.

"You," despite the stern note Viggo's voice holds, the wrinkles around his eyes don't vanish, "are not giving me a pet name."

Challenge, Orlando thinks. Tugs at Viggo's hair until they are at eye's level and smiles prettily. "Honeybear."

"Try and die." But the corners of Viggo's mouth are twitching, just a little. Orlando presses a kiss to one of them, blows against the damp skin.

"Filthy human."

Viggo tightens his hold on Orlando's waist. "Prissy elf."

A soft laugh. Orlando tosses his hair back in an exaggerated move, grins as it causes one of the dark strands to brush Viggo's face. "You think this will ever get old?" he asks, after a moment of quiet consideration.

Viggo catches his face in both hands, traps him effectively. His gaze is oddly serious. "Only if we let it."

The following silence is interrupted by a heavy thud, then a muttered curse from the living room. Judging by the voice, Dom has woken up. Great. Both Orlando and Viggo turn to watch, Orlando twisting his upper body around to get a good look .

Dom gets up from the floor with a grown, balefully glares at the innocent couch while rubbing his side. Billy, sprawled in one of the chairs, shifts slightly, but doesn't wake, and Dom is careful not to step on any human bodies that might be occupying the floor. Orlando is vaguely reminded of a battle field, fallen bodies covering the ground.

By the looks of it, only few of his guests actually made it to bed last night. Not that he'd been around to supervise.

Dom's gaze sweeps through the room, finally settles on Orlando and Viggo. Eyes widen at their position, at Viggo standing between Orlando's parted legs, bodies curving into each other, possessive touches. The surprise is replaced with something that would probably be a smirk if Dom's muscles were awake and willing to cooperate.

"Now, isn't that interesting? We kind of wondered where the two of you'd disappeared to last night."

"Morning, Dom." Orlando grins and is rewarded with a raised eyebrow as Dom approaches, grabs a roll on his way over to them.

"So." He takes a bite, smiles with crumbs still clinging to his lips. "Did you two finally buy a clue, then?"

"Don't worry." One of his hands still resting on Viggo's shoulder, Orlando leans aside to get a better look at Dom, tilts his head and bats his lashes at him. "You're still my one true love. Viggo's just for the great sex."

Skilled fingers, sure and experienced, wander up the inside of his thigh, Orlando's legs still wrapped around Viggo's waist. For the sake of Dom's presence, Orlando reluctantly uncrosses his ankles, but doesn't stop the journey of Viggo's hands.

"Great sex, indeed." An intimate smile, Viggo's breath ghosting over Orlando's lips. Mint, mhmm. The fingers are getting closer to --

"Not in public!" Orlando exclaims, an expression of mock horror on his face. He shifts slightly on the counter as he pushes Viggo's hands away. Unrepentant, Viggo grins, but stops his caresses.

"Billy!" Dom turns in the general direction of the chair occupied by Billy. "You owe me fifty bucks!" A groan is the only answer he receives.

"Bucks?" Orlando repeats, tone incredulous, staring at Dom. Because, well. Bucks? "Are you going all ghetto on us, Dom?" And okay, yeah, maybe he should concentrate on the fact that his friends are betting on Viggo and he, but whatever. Whatever.

"Ey yo, mothafuckah." The light punch that accompanies Dom's words lands on Viggo's upper arm. "Take ya hands off mah bitch!"

"Your bitch?" Viggo repeats, soft, amused, one eyebrow raised.

"That's quite," Orlando wraps an arm around Viggo's neck, feels coarse cotton and lean muscles shift under his palms. Grins at Dom. "Scary."

"Oh, get a room." But the grimace only lasts for a few seconds before an answering grin spreads over Dom's face, wide and true. "Took you long enough. Daft wankers."

"Cunt."

"Long-haired wannabe pirate."

"Ouch." Orlando clutches one hand to his chest. The back of it brushes against Viggo's shirt. "That hurt."

A glance at his watch before Viggo steps out of the embrace of Orlando's legs. Orlando immediately misses his warmth. "I think it's time to leave, Orlando. Else you'll," the ghost of a smile distracts from Viggo's slight frown, "miss your plane."

"Oh." Maybe he wants to. But Orlando sighs, hops off the counter. The orange juice glitters wetly amongst pieces of broken glass, and he decides to leave that to his guests as well. "Yeah, okay."

Not really, though.

d.

The flap-flap of the propellers mixed with the roar of the engine, and despite the earplugs, it was loud. Very extremely fucking loud. Much too fucking loud for the early hour. Or maybe his ears were just more sensible this early.

Treesgrassrockswater blurring into one big mass as they flew over the land, and because he'd seen it all before, because the novelty had worn off, it was hardly enough to keep him awake. Orlando raised a hand to hide his yawn -- manners, yeah. --shifted to get comfortable. The boxes, replacement for Sean Bean's body, were bloody hard, unmoving, uncomfortable against his side. Fucking --

A touch on his arm, and Orlando turned to look at Viggo, met calm blue eyes, a soft smile. Viggo said something, but because it was too loud, Orlando shrugged, shook his head. The words were repeated, slower, and the movement of Viggo's lips told Orlando that it might have been something about sleep.

Which, of course, could also be blamed on the fact that the word sleep was all his body seemed to repeat, endlessly, in a loop. But whatever.

Orlando nodded. Yeah, sleep was good. Who cared about context?

He didn't quite understand the expectation in Viggo's gaze. Then Viggo smiled again, comprehending, used one arm to draw Orlando closer. Orlando's head came to rest against his chest, and, um. Yeah, okay, nice. The protection of Viggo's -- Aragorn's -- cloak actually blocked some of the noise.

Orlando took a deep breath, inhaled the smell of dirt and sweat that was what really made Viggo's costume authentic. Underneath it, almost hidden, he thought he could detect a hint of clean soap, but couldn't be sure.

Closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax, drift off into a light half-sleep.

a.

By now, the VIP lounge of Heathrow airport seems like a third home to Orlando. It's a clinical room, white, plain, a few puny plants tucked away in corners, but Viggo and he are alone, get the row of sofas, the thick cushions intent on swallowing all bodies that dare come too close, all to themselves.

"This night was really quite unexpected. It's not that I haven't thought about it before, but." Viggo's words, softly spoken, effortlessly reach Orlando over the muted noise of people rushing by outside, of announcements made by emotionless female voices. Last call for flight 534 to Berlin, all passengers please...

"I didn't expect it to be quite this..." Viggo trails off.

"Intense?" Orlando suggests. Is sorry a moment later because he thinks that he should have given Viggo the time to consider his options. Viggo never says things he doesn't mean.

"Intense, yes. Breathtaking, overwhelming." A smile, Viggo's fingers warm where they rub circles into the thin skin of Orlando's wrist. Orlando stares at the backpack to his feet and waits. "Natural," Viggo finishes, quietly.

Orlando smiles a little, his head bent. Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at Viggo, encounters an intense stare. His smile widens. "You do realize you sound like a bad romance novel, right?"

"I'm trying to be serious here, elf boy." Despite the exasperated tone, Viggo's expression doesn't change, fingers continuing their circular motion. His features are sharply defined, colors overly intense due to the surrounding brightness.

"We..." Orlando settles his hand over Viggo's, stills the moving fingers. Their skin tones, olive and gold, complement each other, and Orlando studies the contrast, tries to burn it into his memory. "We've never been very good at serious, Vig."

"Then maybe we should give it a try." Viggo's voice is low.

"Yeah," Orlando says, slowly. Viggo's hand turns, palm up and against Orlando's, and he allows their fingers to twine, watching. "Maybe we should."

The words are spoken so low they're almost a whisper, but the momentary tightening of Viggo's grip tells Orlando that they didn't get lost.

"So..." Viggo is looking at him, and Orlando can feel the weight of his gaze. He raises his eyes from their entwined hands to meet Viggo's, and somehow, everything is clear and easy. The colors seem gentler now, contrasts less sharp although Orlando's sure that the light hasn't changed. He takes a deep breath, doesn't look away.

"So, here's the deal." A brief smile flickers and dies: Orlando's not sure if there's reason to smile. "I might possibly hypothetically maybe be in love with you."

And just like that, he can feel all tension vanishing from Viggo's body, feels it trickle away through the contact of their touching palms. Viggo leans forward a little, breath hot on Orlando's face. The corners of his mouth are twitching. "Now who sounds like a bad romance novel, hmm?"

Orlando grins. He knows Viggo's answer has been given already. "If this were a bad romance novel, I would have fallen down on my knees and declared my undying love and devotion and," breathe, "all that shit about not being able to live without your smiling face and your eyes, like two stars in the night of my life. Or, um," he pauses, grin widening. "Something."

The look in Viggo's eyes changes to one of contemplation. His gaze is one of blatant perusal. "Maybe I want you to."

"What? Declare my undying love and devotion?"

"You're quite pretty on your knees."

Orlando laughs, and the sound rings clear over what little noise from the outside world the walls don't swallow. "Pervert."

One of Viggo's rare grins -- the kind that's bright, full of joy, completely uninhibited -- answers him before Viggo settles back into the cushions, upper body turned to face Orlando. "Oh, and by the way? Sentiment's reciprocated."

"Pervert?" Orlando asks. His smile stays, seems engraved in his skin.

"No." Viggo moves closer, exhalation ghosting over Orlando's lips. The proximity makes it impossible for Orlando to see his eyes clearly. "The one you so eloquently referred to as maybe possibly hypothetically."

"Possibly hypothetically maybe," Orlando says, weakly, captured. He couldn't look away even if he tried. Rabbit, he thinks, but it's a vague thought, so distant it almost doesn't make it through to his consciousness.

"That's the one I meant, yes." And then Viggo closes the almost nonexistent distance, makes it truly nonexistent as their lips meet in a gentle kiss, none of the urgency of the night -- the morning? -- left. Just certainty. And acceptance.

When they separate, identical smiles, hands still entwined, Orlando smirks slightly. He knows he should resist, but, "Cool."

"Kid." The affection in Viggo's eyes is obvious, and Orlando leans over to press a kiss to the corner of Viggo's mouth.

"Pedophile."

"So," as Viggo leans back into the cushions, only the slightly bluish tint of the skin beneath his eyes stands witness to a sleepless night. Viggo's thumb resumes its earlier circular motion. "I heard the Caribbean is quite a nice place to stay for a while."

"Oh, definitely." They're still alone, and because there are only ten minutes left till check-in and he wants to make the most of them, Orlando swings one leg over both of Viggo's, straddles his thighs. Presses close. "You should take a trip over there sometime."

A look of utter concentration as Viggo's free hand finds one of Orlando's nipples, hidden under two layers of clothes. Viggo glances up briefly. "Do you happen to know what the weather's supposed to be like next week?"

"Does it matter?" Orlando asks. Gasps as teeth sink into the skin just beneath his collarbone, tug gently.

"Probably not." Viggo's voice is muffled by Orlando's skin. He lifts his head away, and Orlando sighs at the loss. "Although I guess I'd need a place to spend the night."

"Actually," both hands fisted in Viggo's hair, Orlando drags him into a bruising kiss, grins against Viggo's lips, "I know quite a nice bed."

"Do you, now." Then Viggo pushes one hand down the front of Orlando's jeans, and although they probably shouldn't be doing this, not here, not now, Orlando doesn't really care. There are just things that have nothing to do with reason.

They aren't even supposed to.

Notes and inspiration:
- Jimmy Nail, "Ain't No Doubt": I don't want nobody else, I love you. -- She's lying. -- There won't be somebody else and that's true. -- She's lying. -- Say you'll always be my friend, sweet darling...
- "One night Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had early calls for a dawn shot of them running along the plain, so we all decided to camp out. We went fishing, built a fire pit, roasted up some steaks and just had this lovely evening out under the stars. Producer Barrie Osborne sat around telling tales of The Cotton Club. I think for me, looking round that fireplace, that was the most cherished memory of the whole production." -- Karl Urban
- "[Sean and Viggo] broke into [Orlando's] hotel room in the middle of the night. They carried him downstairs. Billy and I sat on Orlando's knees and Sean Bean pulled his arms back. Viggo pulled up Orlando's shirt and slapped the hell out of his belly." -- Dominic Monaghan