TITLE: looks like snow
ORIGINAL STORY: looks like snow by queenofalostart
AUTHOR: Buffett
Pairing: OB/VM
DISCLAIMER: Not true, and adapted from another author.
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Viggo chooses a small table in the farthest corner of the trailer. It doesn't matter. Orlando's behind him like a second shadow, long and inescapable.
"Viggo," grins the shadow, and pulls a chair from an adjacent table to rest next to Viggo's, stretches his legs out comfortably so that Viggo has to pull his own boots back under the seat of his folding chair. Orlando's lunch tray teeters on the edge of the small table -- there's not really enough room there for two. The condiments are already crowded.
Orlando's lunch consists of an anemic slice of melon, a few aging grapes, and salad without dressing. Viggo makes a mental note to avoid roles involving such abstinence, and moves his burger and cheesecake over an inch and a quarter. He chances a sideways half-smile and waits.
Orlando picks up a grape and holds it in his fingertips, considering. Oh no, he won't, thinks Viggo, but of course Orlando will. Viggo looks up and blinks hard to scour away the image of Orlando rolling the grape around his mouth. Of course he will. Yesterday it was a carrot.
"How's our Liv?" asks Orlando, around the grape, and waggles his plucked eyebrows lewdly.
Just about the only cast member Orlando hasn't yet asked Viggo about is Sean Astin, who's married. Orlando even twigged him briefly about Sean Bean after that long shoot Sean and Viggo'd spent lying together among orc corpses.
"She's her own Liv," says Viggo. "Occasionally Royston's Liv," he adds, though that's not quite correct, and takes a big mouthful of burger to stifle whatever's coming next.
It's juicy, the burger, rare and drippy. Viggo has to grope for a napkin from the stainless-steel dispenser next to the condiments on the table. Orlando eagerly grabs at the napkins in Viggo's hand -- to help with the drips? Viggo can't even think about Orlando touching his face, and wrests the napkins away with a bit too much force. The ketchup tilts over on its side, taking the honey dispenser with it.
Viggo wipes his chin and concentrates on serene things: Geese flying. Henry asleep. The white noise of falling snow. He forks up a bite of cheesecake and lets it spread in his mouth, creamy and soothing.
Orlando subsides momentarily. Then:
"So I heard you and Dom went off yesterday."
A glance sideways finds Orlando studying a chunk of melon with feigned intensity. Viggo, crowded as he is, can't help a smile. Persistent little fucker.
"Yeah, did some fishing . . ." Viggo says. Orlando's silent, so Viggo fills the space: ". . . took some pictures." Orlando licks his lips like a child denied cake, and Viggo can't quite make himself look away. He gazes solemnly at Orlando's mouth and wonders if it wouldn't just be easier to give in to whatever Orlando wants, to stare without shame. He watches Orlando's mouth open to let in another grape and doesn't notice that he's put his cheesecake-coated fork down in a puddle of honey, smearing his knuckles in it.
"Got a great one of Dom with an incredible catch." He's rambling now. A trout," he finishes, lamely. He moves his fingers and notices the honey. "Damnit," he mutters. The leftover napkins only make matters worse. Now there are shreds of paper stuck to his fingers.
"Give here," Orlando says, and Viggo tries, really tries to relax and see what it would be like, giving in to Orlando. He uncurls his dirty fingers and lets Orlando's manicured hands warm the honey. It's like one of those odd spa treatments you read about, mud rubs and seaweed wraps and other gooey, weirdly luxurious things.
Viggo watches how Orlando works the grape in his mouth; does he ever actually swallow food? His cheeks hollow and shift as he sucks on it. Viggo's eyes snag on the zit on Orlando's chin. It's nearly hidden by expert makeup, but it's still visible.
Henry hasn't yet had his first zit. Viggo gently pulls his hand away, and sucks the honey off his thumb. Orlando groans and twists in his seat.
"What do you want, Orlando?"
"You know. You know."
Viggo doesn't. He raises his eyebrows. Orlando hisses and writhes a little.
"Just--take my fucking picture. Anytime. Anywhere. You've done the rest of the cast, haven't you? Even John, even Kieran. How about behind the props shed?" Orlando leans in, lowers his voice. "I'll take off my costume if you like. I'll strip down to nothing in the fucking snow, you know I'd do it, don't you?"
Viggo holds very still and tries, unsuccessfully, not to imagine the photos. They are very clear in his mind. The contacts would come out first. Then, maybe, Orlando would pull off his ears, one at a time. Next the makeup, revealing the sparse stubble and occasional blemish underneath. He doesn't think there would be very many photos.
"C'mon, Vig. Viggo. Come on. You know you want to. Come on, yeah?" Orlando reaches over, squeezes Viggo's thigh just a little too high up. Orlando's damn near pleading, but his eyes are dancing now.
Viggo thinks of Henry negotiating bedtime when there's a good musical guest on Saturday Night Live; Orlando has precisely caught the infuriating tone Henry uses when he's sure Viggo's going to give him his way. Viggo's ears heat unwillingly.
"What, you're worried we'll get caught? Dom'll be jealous? it's too cold out? Why not? Why the fuck not, Viggo?"
Viggo can feel his mouth wanting to open and spill out something terribly wrong, so he presses his lips together and waits until the wanting passes.
"Looks like snow," is is what he finally comes up with. He slides out from under Orlando's warm, sticky fingers and walks out into the chilly afternoon.