Part 1
Fumbling for the lock and, damn, the key wouldn't fit. Trying again and again to open that door with hasty, clumsy fingers. And it didn't make his job easier that he was pressed with his back against the door and that he was being kissed until he could think of nothing else but ... this:
Must.
Have.
You.
Sweetness and heat and spiralling lights dancing in his head. Hot breath on his neck, faintly smelling of smoke and alcohol and a small cheeky laugh that spilled into his mouth: "D'you think you could open that door? Or do you want to ... get it on right here?"
Door ... door? Ah yes, the key! One more try.
They almost tumbled to the floor when the door finally flung open under their combined weight. It smashed with a bang against the adjacent wall. Closing the door with a fast kick and slamming Orlando against the wall went together in one single movement.
Orlando! God, he was so hungry for that boy!
And shouldn't be.
What was he thinking? Thinking? He had stopped thinking the moment he had first seen him on the set. When he had suddenly, unexpectedly, frozen under the gaze of those alien blue eyes. Impenetrable and inexplicable, that stare, and from that moment on it caught his attention again and again, even if only for a second.
But even when the transformation was undone, the elf replaced again by Orlando, the boy remained a mystery to him. And while that mystifying ethereal creature was silent and meditative and sometimes aloof, Orlando was sociable and lively as quicksilver, never sitting still for more than a few seconds, his hands in motion all the time just as his mouth never went silent, babbling on continuously or cracking endless jokes.
Though behind that colourful façade, somewhere in the depths of Orlando's dark brown eyes, a mystery seemed to be hiding, waiting to be solved by him.
And only him.
All these weeks, however, he had been avoiding getting to the bottom of that mystery, had even avoided making any closer contact to Orlando.
Until that evening.
He couldn't even say what had suddenly changed that night. What had been different from all the days and nights before?. Why it had happened at all?
But it hadn't taken much to make it happen. Only a few glances sent across the room over the cast and crew members crowded at the bar, partying, talking animatedly and dancing in the middle of the room.
That evening he and Orlando had not spoken in the bar at all. When he finally left the bar heading for the elevator, Orlando had joined him instantly. Without a word he had taken Orlando's hand and dragged him along.
As soon as the elevator doors had closed their bodies had clashed against each other violently as if drawn by invisible but unstoppable forces. There had been no need for words then either. Only kisses to get to know each other. And hands to explore secrets that couldn't be uncovered otherwise. Harsh gasps and soft whispers conveying connotations such trivial means as spoken words would never have revealed.
Holding up Orlando's hands above his head, Viggo pinned the younger man against the elevator wall, devouring Orlando's lips and his broken sighs.
Hell, the boy was a wild one! Twisting madly in Viggo's grip, his taut well-muscled form arching up to meet every inch of Viggo's body. Jutting his slender hips forward to make Viggo feel his erection, tantalizingly brushing against his own, driving the older man insane in a matter of seconds.
It was a mistake, however.
He had known it the instant his lips closed on Orlando's. After all, what did he expect from the boy? And what could he give Orlando in return? He shouldn't have started that game.
But the game had begun before he had even noticed it. Long before.
Still, he shouldn't be kissing Orlando like there was no tomorrow. Because there would be a tomorrow. A son who was barely twelve or thirteen years younger than this would-be lover and friends and colleagues. Many long months they would have to keep on working together.
No, he should not let Orlando kiss him like that! Or touch him like that!
Ah, don't tell me what to do! He silently cursed at that warning inner voice. At this very moment he didn't want to be rational and ponder possible consequences. The only thing he could think of was that he finally, FINALLY, held the boy in his arms like he had been fantasizing about all those weeks. There was nothing else he wanted right now than lose himself in that heat and magic that was Orlando.
Reluctantly, he broke off their kiss, just to look at the younger man again, to study that sublime expression of ecstasy on Orlando's face. At that moment Orlando's eyes fluttered open and there was that mystery again, buried somewhere in the depths of his dark brown, now almost black eyes.
He only needed to reach out his hands and frame Orlando's face, trace the delicate cheekbones with his thumbs and kiss him again, fiercely, madly. Close his arms around the boy's slender form and crush him under the weight of his own body. Make Orlando moan and whimper and scream. And come for him. And then, the moment before he climaxed, in that split second when he'd let all defences drop, the mystery would - perhaps - be revealed at last.
But what, if there was nothing to be revealed? What if the cherished exterior closed around a core of emptiness?
He would surely hate Orlando then, hate him for being a vain creature whose only mystery was that there was nothing at the bottom of that mystery. And a part of him almost hated Orlando already, for making him dependent on the trace of a smile or some meaningless words thrown up in the air for public amusement like juggling balls. For making him hope and wish these words were not meant for just anybody, but actually for him.
Ah, it would be easier if Orlando were not Orlando, Viggo thought, feeling an uneasy irritation welling up inside him that grew stronger with each heart-beat. All of a sudden, he wished Orlando was just a pretty little rentboy who'd bend over and curve his lovely back for him and spread his legs invitingly. Then he wouldn't have to ponder possible consequences and possibly non-existent mysteries. He'd just fuck him and be done with it.
"Vig, I want you," Orlando's husky voice startled him abruptly from his reflections.
"But first, we'd better get out of these clothes. Shall we?" Before he could reply to that, Orlando's hands had gone down to this fly and started to unfasten it.
"No!" Viggo nearly shouted, gripping Orlando's wrists again, so tightly that there would be bruises the next day.
"Huh, what's going on now?" Orlando gasped, confused and alarmed by the abrupt change of Viggo's mood. "I don't get it!"
"I don't get it either," Viggo muttered tonelessly, looking down and letting go of Orlando's hands. "It's just …"
"It's just that you've changed your mind out of the blue, isn't it? High and mighty Mr. Mortensen has suddenly realized he doesn't want to dally with a lad just out of drama school. Is that it?"
"No. That's not true! Orlando, look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have …," he stretched out a hand again to touch the side of Orlando's face, but the younger man backed off instantly.
"Who do you think you are?" Orlando shot at him furiously. "Was this some sort of ... experiment to see how far you could go with me? Whether I'd be easy to get? Oh wow, congrats! I guess I failed your test, didn't I? You bloody bastard! Must have been very amusing for you!"
"Orlando, no! It's not like that! Hey!" He reached out again, but Orlando had already opened the door and stormed out of the hotel room, swearing under his breath.
Viggo sank against the wall and slowly lowered himself on his heels. "Shit!" He banged his head back against the wall in frustration. Yeah, congrats! On having miraculously messed up this more than promising situation as well as his whole relationship to Orlando in a matter of seconds!
Though he had not been willing to admit it before, all these weeks he had done nothing but circle Orlando like a predator stalking a prey. Taking his time, enjoying the hunt while it lasted. Giving Orlando secret looks and unfinished sentences to brood over. Knowing full well the prey would be his at last.
Why hadn't he thought of the consequences before?
No, he had only been dreaming of the boy itself. The elf-boy as he had secretly named him. For Legolas' poise and shine were inherent qualities of Orlando, too. Had fantasized about making love to that very nearly androgynous creature who at the end of the day appeared from under Legolas' wig with a shaven scalp.
In these dark exciting dreams there had been no room to consider whether this would be right or wrong. Oh, he had been so sure. Had so enjoyed being the master of this game. And when he realized that Orlando was actually playing along, returning his looks, almost touching him as if by chance during a shot, he could think of nothing else.
Hard to believe, but it had actually never occurred to him before that it might be a big mistake putting these fantasies into reality. Not until now.
So it had been right to call the whole thing off before he could take it any further. To God knows where. To a point-of-no-return where he possibly lost control of the game and of the emotions that were already running wild even if he only looked at Orlando. Slowly, but surely the boy was making him lose his head.
Yeah, he had done the right thing, he kept saying to himself like it was a mantra. But, strangely enough, it didn't feel right. The mere absence of Orlando's body, almost burning under his touch, a fiery promise of more to come, made him ache.
Slowly Viggo crossed the room, let himself drop down on his bed and stared at the ceiling.
"God, Orlando, what are you doing to me!" he groaned, running his hands through his hair. All you have to do is look at me and it's like I'm spellbound. But I don't want this! I have no need for feelings like that! I've settled in my own quiet corner, finally found the way of living that best agrees with me, away from unnecessary excitements and uncontrollable emotions.
Damn you! Suddenly, I don't know any longer what is right or wrong. I only know I want to have you. Must have you. Here, in my arms. And make love to you.
Again, Orlando's image flashed up in his mind. Orlando, writhing under him when Viggo had pinned him against the wall, the dark brown eyes half-closed, teasing him with wildfire kisses and driving him mad by deliberately grinding his hips into Viggo's ... Just thinking of it made Viggo grow hard again.
Imagining it was Orlando's body he was touching he reached down, opened his fly and began to stroke himself. Slowly at first, but quickly increasing the pace, rough merciless strokes, until he came with stiffled cry.
But it didn't make him feel better. On the contrary. This was a sad and meagre substitute for what he actually wanted and could have had, if he hadn't reacted that foolishly.
He covered his face with his hands. "What am I going to do with you, Orlando?"
For once, he wished there was actually someone to tell him what to do. How to get out of this mess and how to react when he had to face Orlando on the set the next morning. But, of course, there was no one. He was all alone as he had always wanted to be.
And, to make things worse, this time subliming this experience into poetry wasn't an option either. His mind seemed burnt out, as if ravaged by a firestorm. He couldn't find words to distil his misery into some exquisite melancholy verses like he had done so often when being confronted with personal setbacks. Frantically, his thoughts raced to and fro, unstructured, stubbornly refusing to be cast into a neat and ingenious form.
For long hours Viggo lay restless. It was well after midnight when he finally fell asleep and the last thing on his mind before he entered some uneasy and troubling dreams was: Orlando ... please ... tell me what to do ...
