G a r d e n o f E d e n

Vagabond

2004-04-18T13:00:02Z

People who think that runaways are cowards take a high moral ground.
Have they seen people whose lives mirror that of a living hell?
Who could not get another stab at joy unless they escape?
Maybe they insist that running away ain't solving anything
and sooner or later the past's going to catch up.
Well not if they run fast enough.
Not if they are strong enough.
Not if I am fast enough.
And besides I can run forever.
When people tire of me I run.
When people get sick of me I run.
When I am restless I escape.
And what people perceive of you do not get destroyed if you do not stay.
You do not get to disappoint people or yourself.
It's an easy way out.
Watch the sunset in Madrid one day.
And view the world from a skyscaper the next.
Be a cowboy for a while.
Then surf the waves in Florida.
Bound by no rules or by anyone.

Education

2004-04-13T14:41:17Z

Title: Education
Fandom: Harry Potter; slash
Rating: NC-17

Education:

Useless.

That was the word that echoed in his head, while he was being dragged from the horse carriage. Harry Potter, the infamous Boy Who Lived. The boy who couldn’t even save himself and got captured by the Death Eaters instead.

They threw him in the dungeons, which was cold and wet and reeking. The stone floor and walls were slick with blood and mould, the gleaming red eyes of the gargoyles guarding the entrance providing the only illumination. When he tried to stand he heard the rusty magicked iron chains clacking behind him, pulling him down with their weight alone. At nights – or what he presumed to be night in a place devoid of sunlight – he shivered in his skin, naked to the bone, the goosebumps on his skin rising. Once in a while a Death Eater would come to splash glorious clean water on his face, while he tried as hard as he could to have a drink. Dignity was no longer a part of him; it was a privilege that had been stolen away. And time had ceased to have any meaning; every second was spent trying to fend death away.

Then one day, his small universe changed again. The entrance to the dungeon was unlocked, and he was thrust unceremoniously outside. It was near dusk at that time, but his eyes had adjusted to perpetual darkness and even the dim light blinded him totally. He shut his eyes and winced, but gritted his teeth lest he made any noise.

Which was how Draco Malfoy found him, his face clenched in an expression of pain, lying sprawled on the ground in front of him. Thin, very thin, his cheekbones sharp and defined, every rib outlined starkly. His once-flawless skin, now ridden with scabs and scratches, drawn tightly across his frame.

***

“Take off your glasses,” he ordered.

Harry sat dumbly on an antique chair, his eyes surveying with plain disbelief at the splendor and richness of the bedroom. A canopy bed, richly carved, stood at one end. An ornately decorated bookcase at the other. The whole room was covered with a thick Persian rug, and green-and-silver curtains framed the windows.

Harry was stinking, and his clothes were barely more than rags. He represented a wild animal, uncivilized and savagely suspicious of every single thing. He was jumpy, his warnings jumbling into nothing but snarls every time Draco tried to go near him.

“Take off your glasses,” Draco said again, and this time Harry focused his attention warily on him. There was no spark of recognition in those green eyes, but Draco knew the loss was only temporary. Soon Harry would remember.

Harry took off the already-broken glasses, and dropped them by his side. Draco smiled to himself.

“Good boy,” he said smoothly, and in a quick instance crossed the room to haul Harry up. Harry snarled and tried to push him away, but Draco held his wrists tightly.

He practically had to pull Harry into the bathroom, but Harry was so thin that it did not require much effort. To his credit, Harry put up an impressive fight, struggling and spitting, while trying valiantly to wrench himself away.

Draco grabbed the back of Harry’s head and pushed it into the water. Harry half-screamed, a raw sound that tore at his throat. Straddling him, Draco pulled his head back from the water and put his face very close to Harry’s ear. “I know you can understand me,” he hissed. “Stop fighting me or I will drown you. Believe me, I will.”

Harry went very still.

***

A hostage. That was Harry. As long as he was being kept alive, the Aurors would hesitate before launching any mass massacre, for fear of hurting him in the process. Draco was assigned to watch him and keep him alive, even though he knew no one would be surprised if Harry died suddenly.

During the course of the next few days Draco brought the old Harry Potter back to life. He washed Harry’s wounds and injuries and charmed away the scars and the marks. He dressed Harry in the finest clothes and gave him a haircut that accentuated his jaw line just so. It covered his lightning bolt scar when it fell over his eyes, so that one could convince himself that this worldly, good-looking stranger was just someone who looked like the old, stuttering and diffident Harry Potter. Harry Potter was just a boy. This Harry was a man, stylish and cosmopolitan.

He conditioned Harry too, just as a master would train his dog. Fight me, resist me, and you will die. Be obedient, and you shall be rewarded. When Harry was strong enough to remember, he hated him with a passion that Draco saw in his eyes every time they were together. But he obeyed Draco’s every command. Never wear your glasses again. Check. Never look me in the eye unless I told you to. Check. Never question my intentions. Check. You have no right. You have no say. You are my slave. Check.

Oh, but there was times when Harry refused. And those were the times when Draco forced himself on him. And though he saw the glint of unwillingness, the disgust, and the shame in Harry’s eyes, Harry never run away. The fear of dying, or perhaps being passed over to a harsher master like Lord Voldemort, kept him frozen.

But given enough time, the faint and undefined line between pain and pleasure would fade, and with Harry and Draco, it did. Until Harry no longer loathe the sight of Draco, until his body react fiercely whenever Draco ran his tongue over his bare skin. Until the bed no longer seem like a prison, but a game.

In some sick place in his heart, Harry lived for the games they played. He pretended to fight, but in his mind he learnt the exact places where Draco would tremble if he touched them, learnt the best way to get Draco aroused. Biting down on Draco’s hand when he tried to quiet him down. And he disobeyed the rules Draco set more often, daring to meet his eyes, daring to question his ways. It was thrilling to see Draco’s eyes narrow, thrilling to know what was going to happen later on.

It gave him a rush, knowing that he had trained Draco how to react just as he had trained Harry.

***

And the first time Harry seduced Draco?

It was bitterly cold that night, and Draco had just returned from a battle with the Aurors. He was bleeding from a wound in his chest, and had taken off his shirt to try to staunch the bleeding.

“Help me get the bandages, you fuckwit,” he snarled at Harry. His face was smeared with blood from the shirt. Against his fair skin and blonde hair, the blood looked severe.

But Harry only cocked his head, smiling. He stepped forward, stopping just inches away from that once-hateful face.

No, that pale face was always hateful. But now Harry was wiser. There was a difference between love and lust, and the attraction between them was a primal one. He wanted Draco, plain and simple. Wanted to cause him pain too, make him wince, make him sweat. But he did not love him.

“This is not the time, Potter,” Draco said in a low tone. Dangerous.

Harry bent his face towards Draco’s, and kissed him long and hard. Tasted the coppery taste of Draco’s blood, and winced when Draco bit him on the tongue. Their blood mingled, and Harry continued his exploration down that familiar plane of his neck, to the hollow in his throat. Draco pushed him away harshly, breathing hard, and now that his shirt was dirtied with Draco’s blood, he unbuttoned it slowly, watching Draco all the while.

“Why are you doing this?” Draco asked finally.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Harry said. “But I won’t.” And in a flash he had pinned Draco’s hands to the wall, using the weight of his body to keep Draco there. He could feel Draco’s skin against his, and a throbbing ache burnt through his veins. Harry kissed him again, even though this time his actions had a desperate tinge to it; pressing his lips against Draco’s so hard it was less of a kiss than anything else. He could smell the lingering stench of ashes and cigars on Draco’s skin; the cologne scent already fading. Beneath his body Draco was all angular juts and sinewy bone – Draco was frightfully thin, even though he had a strength born from years of enduring. Harry released one hand and slid it down Draco’s stomach, felt the muscles there gave way and tighten again from the contact, and down, fingering the waistband of his trousers. His hand went lower, and a small sound representing a gasp escaped from Draco’s throat.

With one hand he forced Draco to turn, facing the wall. He ran his fingers up Draco’s naked back almost roughly. Fingered the scar that ran down his spine, marring the otherwise pale expanse of skin. He saw the veins that pressed against Draco’s skin. Draco would be easy to mark, that he was sure.

“Why choose me?” Harry asked. A question that had played over and over in his head, ever since he regained his wits. Many times in the night he had acted out this dialogue between them, asking an imaginary Draco, over and over again. And each time he never supplied the answer.

This wasn’t the way Harry imagined their talk would take place, both of them half-naked, with a reversal of roles.

“I wanted to ruin you,” Draco said aloud to the wall. “Humiliate you. Make you wish that you weren’t alive anymore.”

Harry paused, and then he smiled. Putting his face near Draco’s ear, much like the time Draco forced Harry’s head into the water, he said, “You were wrong, you know. You are going to be the one ashamed.”

“Then maybe you should stop.”

“Oh, but I won’t,” Harry laughed savagely, mocking him.

And you don’t want me to stop.

***

And then, just as sudden as it first began, the war was over. Albus Dumbledore defeated Lord Voldemort, and Aurors started a crackdown on Death Eaters everywhere, capturing every single one. The luckier ones ran away, but most weren’t. Their families were made to sign a magical contract that forbid them from practicing any form of magic, and the alliances of the Dark Lord themselves were thrown into Azkaban. Some were lucky – they escaped life imprisonment by pretending to be sorry. It worked decades ago, during the first War, when Harry had not yet been born. And it worked again. Compassion was the Ministry’s weakness.

They rescued Harry from the Malfoy Manor, where he was given a hero’s welcome back in Britain. And Draco was stripped of his name and possessions, thrown into a forgotten cell in Azkaban.

The first person to see Harry was Hermione Granger, and she thrown herself into his arms as soon as he got off the train, sobbing hysterically. He caught snatches of sentences. “Waiting – thought you were dead – Two years – worried – “

“Are you all right?” asked Ron, who was hovering anxiously nearby. He was taller than Harry remembered, his red hair reduced to a buzz cut. In the train station was Mrs Weasley and the rest of the gang – Ginny, Fred, George, Percy, Dean, Jordan, and even Cho. Now as Harry stared across to his crush, she smiled very shyly and nodded her head at him, as if to say hello.

But he only saw Draco’s face, and the old-world grandeur of the manor in his mind. Jolted back to earth, he looked at Ron and smiled.

“No,” he said. “No, I’m not going to be all right.”

A few days later he was back in Hogwarts, in Dumbledore’s office, trying to convince him to pull some strings at the Ministry. He explained, almost detachedly, that the only person who could make Draco realize the errors of his way was he himself. That Harry was the only non-Death Eater Draco listened to. Harry saw in Dumbledore’s eyes that he suspected their bond was much more than friendship, but he didn’t give a damn. Let him suspect. Harry was tired of living up to his expectations. He was just someone who survived when Lord Voldemort cursed him. Maybe the subject of a prophecy that did not fulfill itself in the end. But not a hero, nobody special.

“I can show Draco how wrong he is to follow in his father’s footsteps,” Harry said. “We all know that a Malfoy is a strong ally. With his wealth and power we can find even the wiliest of the Death Eaters still at large.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair heavily. “And how do you plan to do it?” he asked. There was no need for an official word of confirmation – Harry knew he would help him.

And Harry smiled, a vicious, cruel smile that belonged more to Draco than him. “Education, sir,” he said, arching his fingers into a steeple. “I’ll show Draco the way.

“Just leave him to me. I’ll have him on his knees in no time.”

In The Dark

2004-04-13T14:33:00Z

Title: In The Dark
Fandom: RPS; Viggo/Orlando.
Rating: R

When he tried to remember, Orlando can never recall precisely when was the first time Viggo started coming to his trailer at night. Sometimes he thinks he is dreaming, but surely not, because the pain and the pleasure were far too real to be simply fantasy.

Viggo would come almost every night, after Orlando had switched off the lights and drawn the curtains. Orlando never kept his door locked, but Viggo would always bolt the door after he had entered, and then stand in front of Orlando. Sometimes if the moon is full, Orlando can catch a glance of Viggo’s profile, but more often than not, they found each other in total darkness, bodies knowing instinctively what to do; touching; groping – all without the benefit of light.

Orlando could never be sure if this Viggo was really the man he sees every day on set, or perhaps a ghost or a succubus who had found his weakness and exploited it, night after night. Even after a whole day of shooting, when he was weary to the core and could forsake sex for sleep, Viggo would climb over his spent body and slowly strip off his clothes, and lick and caress him until he was aroused enough to wake up.

It doesn’t matter if he closed his eyes or kept them open – it made simply no difference. Devoid of the sense of sight, Orlando discovered that his body made up for it in other ways. He could feel Viggo’s muscles tensing and the scratching of Viggo’s stubble against his own naked flesh – somehow, each touch and each caress seemed amplified. He could smell the sweat on Viggo, the cologne he used. When their lips met in fierce hunger he could taste him. He could hear every minute sound they made – even though their fucking was different in that it was almost completely silent.

Except for the rustle of clothes and the breathing, Viggo and Orlando made almost no other sound. No matter how hard Orlando drove into him, Viggo never said anything. Or made any noise. And it was the same when Viggo claimed him. No sound, nothing. There was something primal and savage about it all, the single-mindedness which they went about it, focusing on nothing but their own vindictive pleasure, and not caring about the other.

In the daytime Viggo never spoke of the two of them, and Orlando never breached the subject. He often wondered to himself, how could Viggo remain so steady and alert and so fucking calm, as if nothing had happened between them. Sometimes when Viggo chatted to him at lunch, talking in a quietly assertive voice about politics, about the weather, about a beautiful piece of artwork or photograph, he seemed almost another person from the silent Viggo whom Orlando knew in the sanctuary of his bed. And that was when Orlando would think of the succubus theory again.

If this were selling his soul to the devil, he would willingly go to his fate.

Sometimes Orlando wanted to punch Viggo in the face, make him bleed, make him suffer, because he seemed so completely unaffected while Orlando was completely confused. How can you remain so calm? How can you pretend that our friendship is still an innocent friendship, and nothing but?

Orlando wanted an answer, but it would not come during the day.

And so he waited.

***

The door shut quietly behind him. Orlando stood quietly in front of the sink, balling his fists.

Shhh.

Strong, familiar arms wrapped around him.

Quiet.

He could hear Viggo breathing evenly next to his ear.

Just be quiet.

The slight clink when Orlando’s belt dropped to the floor. The rustling of clothes.

Silence.

Viggo pushing him onto the cold hard tiled floor, lips apart; probing.

Listen.

This time, Orlando kept his eyes open. This time, he focused his eyes on where Viggo’s eyes should be. And he asked silently in his mind, mutely, “Who are you?”

On pure impulse he leaned forward and bit Viggo on the lip – not the gentle, soft nip that he would give a lover, but a bite of hatred. His teeth clamped down on Viggo’s lips and tore away a huge part of the flesh; he felt Viggo recoil and his barely suppressed pain.

He heard his voice.

“Orlando.”

The next day Orlando spotted Viggo with a huge wound on his lower lip, and when Orlando touched him on the shoulder Viggo shuddered. For the first time ever, Viggo seemed to remember the nights.

And never again did Viggo come to his trailer anymore. Maybe the bite had awakened his memories, a remnant of the nights, that carried over to day, and forced him to recall.

But that was okay, since Orlando had already left his mark on him.

Magic In The Night

2004-04-03T09:16:09Z

Title: Magic In The Night
Fandom: Tokyo Babylon
Summary: A re-creation of the last page of the Tokyo Babylon manga, when Subaru is walking down an empty and dark street filled with sakura petals.

It is night.

Everything is shrouded in shadows. Against this twilight background the street lamps glitter like eyes in the dark. The buildings that line the opposite ends of the street are unlit and empty.

Not too far away, the heart of Tokyo resides. Subaru knows it. He can hear the traffic and the voices. Lights, sounds. Light, smells. People rushing past one another, not meeting the eyes of strangers. Products wrapped up in bright plastic containers, untouchable, undisturbed.

This place, however, is deserted.

The spirits here are whispering amongst themselves. They speak of a recent visitor. A visitor, who could not see them, yet knows of their presence. They say he has an enigmatic smile; sometimes mocking, sometimes sincere. He is dressed in black and impenetrable sunglasses shade his eyes. When they sees him, the spirits hush, watching this stranger, a bringer of death. Yin. And then he walks away.

Subaru hears their stories and hides his pain.

His character leaves no allowance for him to love half-heartedly. When he falls for someone, he falls hard. When he loves, he loves completely. Heart and soul and being.

But oh, how wrong a person to love. How completely the heavens had played him. The angels and the saints must be laughing at this cosmic joke, when he watch the sister he adore die at the hands of the one he loves. To realize that he is nothing more than a bet.

Subaru believes in magic. There is magic in the air tonight. There is seduction and mystery and a thousand deathly sins here, in the air. Like a dark mist enveloping the entire place. An aura that only he can create.

If only Subaru could see him... if only he could reach out and touch, feel, realize, come here, just a few hours earlier.

Subaru knows it is futile to wait. He won’t come back. He won’t come back even though he has left him sisterless and broken, left him hopeless and desolate. Hating and loving someone at the same time. A wretched combination that eats away whatever joy he has. That crawls into his mind every time he closes his eyes. Always wondering to himself – what if? What if?

What if I had just...

He closes his eyes at the memory and turns around. No use staying any longer here, a place where only ghosts of memories exist.

What do you want to see, Sei-chan, before you will show yourself?

Do you want to see Subaru break down on the ground and cry?

Do you want to see his face twisted with anguish and tight with pain?

Do you want to see Subaru alone, broken, and shattered through and through?

Around Subaru, sakura leaves are swirling. The wind howling around him creates a haunting melody. The ground only echoes his footsteps, and nobody else. There is a pathway in front of him, unlit by light, deserted and devoid of souls. He follows the cement ground.

He thinks he sees a flash of sunglasses. He thinks he hears a trench coat flapping. He thinks he sees the mocking smile he wears, reflected in every shiny surface.

Alone, broken, shattered.

He thinks he is watching him now. But that may just be the reflection of a sakura petal.

Castle

2004-03-12T12:06:43Z

Castle

He built a castle made of thorns;
And a garden of blood-red roses.
To run would be to hurt myself,
Imprison me with your beauty,

I fell in love with immortality,
And I thought I would never succumb to pain.
Until I saw you and you used me for your gain,
You made my stone heart weep blood.

On my knees trying to get you to listen,
But you won’t, in this forbidden place.
Night and day all but the same,
If this is love then I must have fallen from grace.

And there is so much beauty that,
You have no need for me.
The roses the castle and the,
Pain you are causing.

Can’t you see that I am rotting?
Let me go.

Puppy Love

2004-03-12T12:04:54Z

You were
Nothing more than the New Guy,
When you first came to class.
Couldn’t see what lies,
Beneath the mask.
But I didn’t care enough
To give you a glance.
‘Cause the majority of the class
knew each other.
And who were you to
Make us wonder.
Until I realize,
This was –
more than a crush.
Because they fade,
And this didn’t.
Tell me,
If they call this puppy love,
If this was nothing but
Innocence and naiveté,
Why does it hurt the hardest?

Every guy in the street
reminds me of you,
Every sight of a basketball court
makes me think of you,
I see your face I hear your voice
In every person I see in everything I read
But they were all unreal.

Sometimes it feels as if I am bleeding myself dry
A sacrifice to an indifferent god, for you.
I’m broken torn ripped I’m gone I’m lost
All I want is a crack in your façade
just - tell me something so I won’t have to
Torture myself with ‘what if’s anymore.

Lost In The Wild

2004-03-07T01:54:39Z

Title: Lost In The Wild
Rating: PG-13; R in later parts
Fandom: RPS; Viggo and Orlando

There was the taste of vomit on his tongue even though he had no recollection of what he had done the night before. Everything about him felt leaden, as if he was moving through molasses.

He opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was the lazily revolving ceiling fan, and the bland yellow, peeling wallpaper of the room. Sewn untidily all over the floor were his clothes. Slowly, he remembered. A glass syringe near the window. An overused vein in his arm. A cocktail of alcohol. Touching a woman; kissing her; fucking her, wanting to find the old flame of being alive. And failing to find it.

He splashed cold water onto his face from the rusty tap, and looked at himself in the mirror. Someone with hollowed-out eyes and gaunt cheeks and unkempt hair was there. He wondered, half-tiredly, where had the old him gone to. Where was the guy who once greeted the world with an impish grin and a devil-may-care attitude?

He could lie to himself and say that he was older now. But self-denial was not one of his many flaws.

It made his descent into hell even harder, because he could not cheat himself. Knowing that everything he did was reckless heartless stupid foolish dangerous perverse sick destroying killing himself, but he did not care.

Once upon a time there was Orlando the star, the heartthrob who made girls cry and overtook Josh Hartnett as the hottest guy on the block. Splashed on the face of every magazine was his mug and that smile, people were calling him the “next big thing” and the “new Leonardo DiCaprio”. Everywhere he went he was surrounded by the clicks and flashes of the camera and the screams of frenzied fans.

That kind of fame does not last long. Others came; he was forgotten. Overlooked and unwanted. Hollywood was a place of one-night stands – a brief, dazzling time on the top, then back to square one the next day.

So there he was, anonymous and alone. A few cameos here and there, and occasionally a mention as the “elf from the classic Lord of The Rings trilogy” in newspapers and magazines. A pathetic man.

The motel receptionist gave him nary a glance when he walked out, hair hidden beneath a cap and wearing clothes that look like they hadn’t seen the inside of a washing machine for years. His car was outside, covered with stains that he had not bothered to clean. The inside of the car smelled of potato chips and soda. He dumped his bag onto the seat and got in.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Orlando turned towards the sound. Someone was walking towards him, her hair a tangled mess, a lipstick stain smeared across her cheekbone, and her black tank top inside out. She glared furiously at him.

“You are,” Trisha said, her voice raised in anger, “a fucking bastard. What do you think I am, a hooker?”

“It was a one-night stand, Trisha,” Orlando said listlessly, clutching his steering wheel and staring straight ahead. “Don’t make it into something.”

“Don’t make it into nothing,” she snapped. “I thought we shared something. I thought I were your friend. Orlando – “

That was when he tossed a wad of bills into her face. The early breeze caught the cash and scattered it around the parking lot. Some of them flying off in the wind, some of them struck onto the wet mantle of grass nearby. Trisha was screaming, pounding on the door. He switched on the radio loud enough to drown out her voice, and drove off.

It had been the same old thing these few years – the drug usage, the girls, the rejections, the failures. Each night trying to drown himself in alcohol, because to sleep without the aid of a bottle means dreams and nightmares. Somewhere along the course of his life he had forgotten what used to make him happy, the important things that mattered, and he couldn’t find them back.

***

It was through pure coincidence that Viggo met Orlando again.

At that time, it was raining. Actually, it was always raining in London. Viggo, never having the habit of bringing an umbrella when he went outside, was soaked through and through while walking towards an art gallery. He ducked inside Sherman’s Pub, the only establishment nearby, to keep himself dry, and came face-to-face with Orlando.

Viggo hadn’t forgotten Orli’s eyes. Light brown with a darker rim; they glanced up at him with a faint but slightly bitter surprise. He hadn’t forgotten his hair either – dark brown, growing every way, and curling behind the ears so. Or his voice, the soft London accent peppered with the Amercian slang he’d picked up while living in Los Angeles.

He hadn’t forgotten too, how weak he felt sometimes when Orlando was around. Viggo prided himself on being strong, being the undisrupted leader in a group. But when Orlando was around, his charisma surrounded him. Made him unable to think or speak coherently sometimes. Weak.

Orlando was talking.

“Mortensen. How nice to see you again. When was the last time we met?” Orlando counted on his finger, his speech slightly slurred. “One, two, three, four, five years. I think I got that right.”

“I have my reasons,” Viggo said tightly. Between the acidified, smog-filled rain and talking to Orlando, he rather choose the former.

“I’m sure you do,” Orlando’s lips twisted into a smile that was not quite sincere. Viggo’s eyes drifted to the door, looking for an escape, and Orlando grabbed his arm in an unexpectedly violent way.

“Don’t go. Stay,” he said, and for the first time Viggo could detect a hint of that boyish vulnerability that so characterized Orlando back when they were in New Zealand. But in the next instance the shell was back again and Orlando added, somewhat sneeringly, “You can make time for a forgotten friend.”

Viggo followed the younger man as he made his way towards a table near the back. They sat opposite each other, not talking. Around them the pub was rousing; men watching football or to drink their sorrows away. Viggo felt as if he was a universe away from them.

“Heard you got yourself in jail,” Viggo said when the silence became too awkward to bear.

“Heard you got married,” Orlando shot back.

“That I did,” Viggo said slowly. “She makes a good wife.”

“I bet you can’t even remember her name,” Orlando said. “What, does she give great blowjobs? Or does she fuck great? You don’t even love her.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Viggo replied automatically. He decided that it was unnecessary to tell him that he was recently divorced.

Orlando put both of his hands on the table and leaned forward, his face inches from Viggo’s. “You don’t,” he said clearly, “you don’t love her.”

Viggo wanted to lie but the intensity in which Orlando was staring at him made him speak otherwise. “No, I don’t. You were right. I just wanted to get married by the seaside. Appeals to the inner romantic in me.” Or, maybe not.

“The rest of the fellowship was there,” Orlando said, almost as if to himself. “Sean. Elijah. Billy. Even Ian and Liv were there. Except me.”

“Maybe I forgot,” Viggo said.

Maybe I don’t want to remember.

Orlando laughed harshly. Viggo noticed the three-day stubble on his chin, the listless way in which he waved his beer around. He noticed the tattoos on his knuckles and the sweat that glistened on his skin.

“Forgot,” Orlando repeated. “So there I was, watching the telecast of the wedding on cable,” he continued, in a low voice that seemed hollow. “And I saw you – “ he pointed to Viggo. “ – smiling at the camera with that bitch hanging onto your arm, and I saw Elijah and I saw Sean and I saw – everyone except me. Fellowship of nine, my foot.”

Orlando threw back his head and laughed, but Viggo heard the pain beneath. Then Orlando was laughing and crying at the same time but nobody noticed because it was just too fucking noisy and everyone else was busy with their own lives except, except for Viggo.

“I’m sorry,” he replied, looking at Orlando. One of his hand reached out, almost with a will of its own, to touch Orlando’s temple. Then he used his thumb to wipe the sides of Orlando’s eyes. “I didn’t think that what I did would hurt you... that much. I thought the further we stayed away, the better.”

“Viggo, you know I – “

“Fuck it, would you shut the hell up?” Viggo said in frustration.

“Look, Orlando, there are just some lines I don’t wish to cross. Some friendships I do not want to risk. On second thought, I have already destroyed our friendship. But at least there is some chance of picking up the pieces. Better than the nothing we will have when you wake up one day and the scales fall from your eyes and you realize what you have done.”

Orlando kept quiet.

The rain had stopped by the time the two of them left. Orlando had an apartment nearby, while Viggo was staying at a hotel. They had a brief quarrel about who would drive who in whose car outside the pub for a while, one which Viggo won when he pointed out that there was absolutely no way he would ride in a car with chips and empty beer cans all over the dashboard and the seats.

It was also when they reached Orlando’s apartment when Viggo realized that he needed to take a leak. One too many beer in the pub, perhaps.

Or maybe just an excuse to get into his house.

Orlando’s apartment was down-to-earth and unpretentious. The monotony of white walls was interrupted by black and white drawings. There was little furniture – a sofa, a coffee table (which probably doubled as the dining table, judging from the spaghetti stains on the wood, Viggo thought.), a television set and stereo made up the entire living room.

When Viggo got out of the washroom he found Orlando slumped in the sofa, surfing through the channels on TV. He was holding another can of beer in his hands. Viggo walked over to take the can away, but the younger man held on to it.

“I’m drinking away my sorrows, do you mind?” he said wryly, before looking up at Viggo. “In the sanctuary of my own home, so don’t you dare say anything about making a fool of myself.”

Viggo sat down next to Orlando and pulled the can out of his hand anyway. “You are going to kill your liver.”

“Like I care,” Orlando smiled at him. “I’ll worry about it when I grow older. Like you.”

“Hey, I live healthily,” Viggo reminded him. “I am probably younger than you in terms of my well-being.”

He noticed a letter on the table, and reached for it. Orlando reached out to stop him.

“It’s another rejection,” he told Viggo. “No movies for me this year. Why aren’t you leaving?” Orlando chided him gently. Brown eyes lacking the cynicism that Viggo had seen a few hours ago.

It was hard to believe he had that effect on Orlando.

Hard to believe they had that kind of effect on each other.

“I don’t know,” Viggo mused. “Maybe I should go.”

“If you want to.”

Orlando glanced at him. Viggo couldn’t stop staring at his eyes. Or the curve of his enigmatic smile that he was wearing now.

And then, quite suddenly, they were kissing each other.

***

Orlando wasn’t sure if it was him who initiated the kiss, or Viggo, or the two of them at the same time, and he didn’t care. All he knew was that Viggo was pulling him down and that his kisses had a kind of desperate violence in it, something born out of being deprived, born out of desire. The sensation of Viggo’s body heat against his own flesh sent his nerve endings into overload and he gasped, sending the beer can clanking to the ground. Viggo held the sides of Orlando’s face, breathing hard. He tried to say something but Orlando stopped him, clambering up and over Viggo.

“Orlando – “

“Shut up,” Orlando said harshly, kissing him again, and this time he found Viggo a bit more willing, his lips a bit more parted, and he reached in with his tongue. A rush of indescribable ache spread from his groin to other parts of his body as he put his hands on Viggo’s hips and tugged at the zipper of his jeans, as the other man groaned and tried to get up, succeeding only in throwing both of them onto the cold marble floor.

Orlando’s head knocked against the sharp edge of the table but he didn’t care – he hadn’t felt so alive, not even with the drugs, or the alcohol. This was what he had been looking for; this was what he was destroying his life to find. This rush.

Somehow both of them had removed their shirts and Viggo was on top of him, his hands roaming over Orlando’s chest, the calluses scraping against his bare skin. When he lowered his head and ran his tongue over Orlando’s nipple, Orlando nearly whimpered. He got up from the floor and lunged for Viggo, and the other man answered his fervor with equal passion. Skin against skin as they tried to make love to the other simultaneously, Orlando using his hands to explore every, single inch of Viggo’s body. Feeling the raised red scar along Viggo’s stomach. Touching and tugging at his hair. The pounding of his pulse when Orlando kissed his throat, his jawline.

His fingers found the faded tattoo that the nine of them had gotten back when they were filming. A rush of memories came back. Him as Legolas. Viggo as Aragorn. The fun they used to have. One time when Viggo kissed him, jokily, teasingly, because they met under the mistletoe at Christmas. One time when Orlando took a tumble from his horse and how Viggo, furious that he wasn’t there to stop the horse, sneaked into his trailer at night to check that he was still alright. The jests they made to one another – Orlando calling him a ‘filthy human’ and Viggo replying in kind that he was an ‘elf boy.’ One time when Viggo landed on top of him when they tripped over each other.

“I love you,” Orlando said raggedly.

It was as if someone had poured ice-cold water on Mortensen – he pushed Orlando away and got up, cursing.

“I didn’t – didn’t meant for that to happen – sorry.”

Orlando stared at him. Viggo was bare-chested, his zipper halfway down, and his hair was mussed up. But his eyes were tinged with faint horror and his face was turning red.

Orlando turned his head towards the door, as the unspent passion in him slowly turned into anger. “The door is right there. Feel free to go anytime.”

And that was what he did.

***

When he fell asleep he was back in New Zealand again, back in the hustle and bustle of being in a shoot. The crew was all around; shouting instructions, chiding one another for messing up. He couldn’t hear the words from inside his trailer; only see the sometimes frustrated, sometimes exasperated looks that they all gave each other. It was drizzling – he could see the raindrops on the window screen and the pitter they made on the roof.

What was that old song lyric again?

There’s nowhere in the world I rather be, than here in my room, dreaming about you and me? Yes. That was it.

“Three more days,” someone said behind him.

He turned and saw Orlando, his elfish hair carelessly tied in a ponytail, and wearing an out-of-place modern sweater. He was leaning against the door, looking wistful. “Just think – a week later we would all be back in our respective lives, never to return here again.”

“We’ll keep in touch,” Viggo replied.

Orlando was as easy to read as an open book. All his emotions and feelings were written clearly on his face, and when he stared up at Viggo, Viggo noticed a trace of Something in those brown eyes that he would rather not think about.

“It won’t be the same,” he said softly, and Viggo looked away.

“Where else can the sun set literally at my feet?” Orlando asked him. “And even if we keep in touch, the most we get to see each other is once, or twice a year. Not on the daily basis like we do now.”

Viggo kept his voice light. “You won’t have to wake up early to get your ears attached anymore. Think about it. There are some good things.”

Orlando ignored what he said. “I think,” he began slowly. “That I will miss you.”

Silence. Viggo was acutely aware that Orlando was getting closer, and leaning towards him. And somehow, he realized that he didn’t care.

Orlando closed his eyes and kissed Viggo, almost gently, as if he was afraid that too strong a move would cause Viggo to back away. And Viggo clenched his fists at his side, not wanting to surrender to his lips, not when he knew that someone’s lips could be so soft, not when he knew that all that was stopping him was the thought that he would hate you once he regained his senses.

Orlando leaned back, his mouth a breath away from Viggo’s. “I’ll miss you, Mortensen.”

It was, Viggo reflected later after leaving Orlando’s house, hideously awkward to fall in love with one of your closest friends in the world. To risk losing a precious friendship for a relationship was stupid. But the alternative – to be nothing special to him – sucked worse.

Sex was okay, sex was alright; he had no trouble with one-night stands. It was a physical thing, and only that. But love – that was a different thing. A foreign concept.

Something impossible.

“No you won’t,” Viggo said harshly. “At best, this is a temporary infatuation. Hero worship, perhaps. You don’t love me. You love an image of me that you have conjured up in your head. Orlando, I am not the person you think I am. I’m not the living personification of Aragorn. I have my flaws. I have a lot of flaws.”

“You think I can’t judge for myself?” Orlando replied, angrily. “That I can’t tell what I am feeling? This isn’t a crush.”

For the next three days he avoided Orlando, and several times when Orlando tried to speak to him he lied and walked away. He saw the hurt in Orlando’s eyes, but he justified his actions, thinking to himself that all these he did, only to save them from a bigger pain later.

Better friends than lovers-turned-foes.

And what for? In the end they were still wary of each other. Each playing a lonely game. Wait – it was him who was playing. Orlando had made it clear long ago what he thought of Viggo.

And then Viggo suddenly wanted to hit himself over the head with a staff – it was him who had been stupid all the time. Five years was an awfully long time to have an infatuation. He knew that Orlando loved him – he followed fanatically every article on Orlando, and knew that his spiral into drugs and alcohol had been fueled partly by Viggo shutting him out of his life.

It was easy to read Orlando, but Viggo had been avoiding his eyes too often.

He was afraid. All these time, he was afraid.

***

Orlando shut the door behind him and looked at the expectant faces in the room. There was a chair in front of a row of tables, and it was to this chair that he moved towards.

“Well Orlando,” said the first man. “This is not the first time you have tried to audition for the role.”

“I believe I might be able to do better this time,” he replied. “When I did the audition two months ago I was barely in control of my life. Now, I think I am coping better.”

The man put on his glasses and gestured to the script in Orlando’s hands. “Right then; please start.”

Orlando closed his eyes for a moment and pushed away all thoughts of Viggo.

“My name,” he said, and smiled softly, knowing that it was the very smile that used to send girls into a swoon. “Is Lancelot. In my lifetime I have been called many things – brother, lover, warrior, the devil. But my story is a simple one. I loved two people at the same time and I could not make my choice... and if I am to blame for the fall of King Arthur and Britain, so be it.”

Forget about Viggo and get on with your life.

So here he was.

When he had finished, he looked at the row of casting directors in front of him. Orlando noticed that most of them were nodding their heads in approval, and that they were smiling.

“We can’t make this official yet, not so early without a press release,” said a lady, balancing a pen in between her fingers. She smiled very simply. “But you ought to know that you have clinched the role of Lancelot. Congrats.”

Orlando took a deep breath and grinned. To his relief, he realized that he was truly happy. “Thank you.”

His euphoric mood was dampened the instant he stepped out of the auditioning room. Viggo was standing at the end of the corridor, his arms crossed, his sandy-brown hair falling across his eyes, left leg hooked behind the right. When he noticed Orlando he looked up, and though the distance was too far for him to see, he could tell that today, Viggo’s eyes would be more gray than blue.

His first thought was to turn the other way and walk on – too often had Viggo brushed him off when he had done the emotional equivalent of cutting his wrists and bleeding himself dry in front of Viggo; kneeling and begging. But his legs refused to obey and his eyes too had turned traitor, lingering on Viggo in a way that shouldn’t be.

“Why are you here?” he asked, and he was glad that at least his voice was flat, emotionless and detached.

“I just want to let you know,” Viggo said slowly. “That I love you.”

“Right,” he replied, turning his head away.

“No,” Viggo shook his head. “I am not saying this because I feel sorry for you, or because I want your body – even though that might be partly it.

Thing is, you got to know this – for a very long time, perhaps more than was necessary, I was afraid. And I am sorry for causing you to wait, and for so much pain.”

He stopped. Looked at Orlando with that intense glance. Orlando swallowed, and smiled painfully.

“I’m not going to ask you if you really meant what you say – “

“I do – “ Viggo cut in.

“And I’m not going to ask you if I am dreaming – “

“You are not.”

“Because it took you long enough,” Orlando finished.

And for a long moment, they just smiled at each other.

^end^

girl_alixues @ 2004-03-06T22:55:00

2004-03-06T14:56:55Z

First entry. Well... nothing much to say except that yeah, it's an archive; it's going to be rated PG-13 if there ever was a rating for journals... *pause* Not really. But since I've always have a preference for dark themes in stories and angst, I think it would be better if young innocent kids don't read these. *snort*