Title: Canīt Let Go Author: truntelinda (truntelinda@hotmail.com) Author web page: http://www.livejournal.com/~trunte Pairing: Viggo Mortensen/Orlando Bloom Warnings: angst Rating: nc-17 Disclaimers: this is fiction, donīt know them, didnīt happen Feedback: yes please, be brutal Archive: Beyond the Fellowship, Aniron Slash, Lirimaer, others ask, iīd be flattered Beta: Angel, babe! Summary: of shirts and smells and things that are impossible to let go of Notes: lyrics that inspired me are from Give In To Me by Michael Jackson, which doesnīt really fit with the actual story anymore...*kicks angst turtle for always poking itīs nose into everything* Canīt Let Go ~*~ Love Is A Feeling Quench My Desire Give It When I Want It ~*~ Orlando hates the way Viggo looks at him from across the room. He canīt actually see it, but he feels the stare burning into his back and he canīt stand it. `What the fuck is he doing here? What is he trying to do? Why is he here?ī It goes through Orliīs mind, over and over and over, and the photographer that he and Johnny are posing for glares impatiently at him and reminds him with a strained voice to smile. Right. Orlando smiles. He feels fake. When the pictures have been taken he heads straight for the bar, carefully avoiding any chance of coming even remotely close to Viggo, who stands there so calmly, now talking to a co-producer of the movie and smiling smugly at Orliīs obvious efforts to not look his way. Orlando has to wait for the people who were there before him to get their drinks and he tries to keep a watchful eye on Viggo in the meantime, but when he loses him in the crowd, Orli knows that it wonīt be long. "Vodka, no ice," he orders and glances nervously around him, thinking that maybe if he hurries he can get away before... "Iīll have the same." No. He never really expected to be able to get away. Heīs never been able to. Something, a quiet voice in the back of his head, tells him that maybe he canīt because he doesnīt want to. Orlando ignores it. "Why are you here?" he asks, his voice blank and his gaze set to knock a bottle on the bar in front of him to the ground. Fuck all if heīll look at Viggo. "Oh, I donīt know...Iīve always had a thing for pirate movies..." "You hardly even go to your own premieres!" It comes out as a sneer and Viggo loves it. So much temper, so much beauty. So much life. How could he ever let go? "Well, I happen to know one of the producers. He invited me. I thought it might be fun," Vig says and intends to go on with his innocence speech, but is cut off. "Youīre only here to torture me! Canīt you just..." "I didnīt know I had that effect on you," Viggo states, his tone clearly indicating that he knows well what effect he has on the younger man. Orlando downs his drink in one go and turns to glare at Vig. Fuck all if he didnīt just look at him. Heīs lost. "Fuck you!" he all but yells, so frustrated at the situation, the conversation. He doesnīt want to be here, doesnīt want to have to deal with this. He just wants to go home and crawl under the covers and he wants to be with Viggo. He wants Viggo! Damn it! He wants nothing more than Viggo and he hates Disney and he hates show business and he hates the way heīs turned out in this fake world. And his eyes must be telling it all, because Viggo takes him by the arm without another word and leads him casually through the room, through the lobby and coat room, until theyīre inside a private bathroom. Itīs not very big, actually kind of small for a place as posh as this, and the lack of space makes them stand closer than Orli wants them to, but not close enough. Itīs almost completely dark, the only light coming from a street lamp outside the window. It gives them both a slightly bluish glow. Orlando presses up against the wall behind him and glares out the window. "You canīt be here," he says firmly. Itīs quiet for a while. Viggo looks at the floor. Itīs bluish, too. Then, almost whispering, he asks, "Why not?" "You know why not, Vig...we canīt...I had no choice..." God, Viggo canīt do this again. He canīt hear the words, canīt stand to listen to that soft voice repeating the same old Hollywood crap mantra again. "Oh, for Christīs sake, nobody forced you to become Mr. Movie Star! You had a choice so donīt feed me your fucking bullshit, alright? And you chose this, this shit over everything else...over me..." Orliīs eyes flash with anger when they turn towards the older man, the mere look in them enough to freeze an entire ocean in an instant. "Well, Iīm fucking sorry for wanting a career! Iīm so sorry Iīm not a fucking hippie like you!" Sarcasm dripping in fat, sticky drops from the words and his voice is twisted in an ugly mix of anger and sadness and fatigue. Viggo cringes. "But itīs not as if I knew that it would be like this! I didnīt know Iīd have to give up everything and become a whole different person! I didnīt know!!" Orlando is screaming now. How could he have known? It all went so fast, one day he was nobody, the next he was the newest and most promising star in every magazine. Nobody had warned him about the downsides, nobody had ever said a word about PR-hell or the obligation to smile for the cameras even if the world was ending. Nobody had mentioned anything about the impossibility of actually being human in this business. Orlando thinks now that maybe he should have asked. Viggo just sighs. Then itīs quiet again. Laughter and voices and clinking of glasses; the sounds filter through the door, can be heard from the party outside. It sounds fake. Orlando hates it. Hates it because he has to be out there and be fake with it. If he had a choice he would rather stay in here for the rest of his life. "I need to get back out there..." he states blankly, "...or people will start looking for me." "Do you want to be out there?" Itīs so simple to Viggo. If he doesnīt want to be somewhere, he wonīt. Itīs simple to Orli, too. "I have to." Orlando reaches for the door, but is grabbed by the wrist before he can turn the lock. And then Viggo is kissing him, fiercily and gently, passionately and sweetly, just like Viggo himself. Orli makes a weak sound of protest before parting his lips to greedily accept Viggoīs tongue and he really thinks that heīs pushing Viggo away, shoving at him, when in fact heīs clutching to the warm, muscular body, pulling it closer. Viggo smirks inwardly, grasping Orliīs other wrist and taking them both in a firm grip with one hand, pinning the younger manīs arms to the wall above his head and grinding his hips against the lean form before him. It makes Orli feel utterly helpless. He wants it so much, but he knows how hard it will be to live without it for months after this. Fuck...this will just make it even harder. A choked moan escapes Orlandoīs lips against his will as Viggo kisses his neck and nips at his collarbone. "I figured youīd want to stay," says Viggo, self assured and sultry, and it makes Orlando angry. Or, more angry, rather, because Viggo knows how hard it is for Orli. He knows that heīs only making it worse. Orlando grunts and tries to twist away, but doesnīt get anywhere, his body just ending up arching off the wall, into Viggoīs warmth, and the older man looks at him appreciatively, smiles. "Going anywhere, little one? Or did you just want to come closer?" It makes Orliīs eyes well up, with anger and helplessness and love. And need. Need to come closer. But he doesnīt say anything and Viggo decides to push further, his free hand curving around the younger manīs ass, squeezing slightly. "Damn, baby, youīre so fine..." "Fuck you! You canīt just keep doing this to me!" Orlando yells then, his voice breaking because Viggo can do anything to him and he will take it no matter what. "No?" "No," but it comes out as a quiet sob as Viggoīs hand finds itīs way inside Orlandoīs pants, stroking and touching, and grey eyes look seriously into black ones. "Then how come you always let me?" There is no answer that Orlando can give other than the obvious three little words, which he wonīt say because Vig doesnīt want him to. And then everything goes dark when Viggoīs kisses make him close his eyes and it all becomes sort of red and a little blurry and Orlando doesnīt have to say a word. Viggo moves his hand up and out of the pants, sliding it under the shirt, over flat stomach and slightly too sharp ribs. But then he stops and goes very still. He releases Orliīs wrists and lets his hand fall to itīs twin on Orlandoīs chest. Orliīs hands find their way around broad shoulders immediately and pulls and he is utterly confused when Viggo still doesnīt move, even resists a bit. "What? What is it, Vig?" he breathes, wondering if maybe Viggo heard someone outside the door or something. But when the older man looks up his expression is as confused as Orliīs. He looks down to his hands again, then up again. "What?! Whatīs wrong?" Orlando starts to get impatient. "Your shirt," Viggo says then, staring at it as if it were something the dog coughed up. "I hate it!" Orlando is puzzled, knits his brow. Itīs a plain white shirt! Everybody has one. Who gives a fuck? But then he gets it. Viggo gives a fuck - because he knows that Orli hates it, too. So the shirt is ripped open, buttons flying all over the place, and discarded to the floor by two pairs of hands that proceed to tangle together as the kisses grow more passionate and hips grind hotly against each other. Eventually Viggoīs jacket and "War is not the answer" shirt follow. The two men press against each other, wanting every inch of skin to touch, the street lamp painting one of them dark, and the other pale, blue. There is so little time, though. Orlando wants to stop time and just kiss Viggo forever and ever, because heīs missed it and it hurts so unbearably much when theyīre not together, but he knows that if this is to happen, it is to happen now. With a last, lingering, kiss to Viggoīs lips, he turns around to face the wall, opening and dropping his pants in what seems like less than two seconds. The older man lets his gaze wander over the taut muscles of Orliīs back, lightly running a finger down the spine. How he was ever allowed to touch this heavenly creature in the first place is beyond him. And then Orlando braces his hands against the wall and pushes back with his hips, bumping Viggoīs rock hard cock. He turns his head to the right, eyelashes smudging against high cheekbones as he looks at Viggoīs still clad crotch, mouth half open and moist. Swollen with not nearly enough kisses. "Come on, Vig...Iīm ready," he says softly, sultry, and moans when a finger enters him suddenly. "Fuck...we donīt have time...just fuck m...Go- od, yes..." Hisses as the finger inside him is joined by another and graze his secret spot once, twice, and then teasingly pulls back out. Viggo quickly looks around in the dim room, finding what he needs on the wall above the sink. He presses the little button a couple of times and fists his hand around the creamy soap, then strokes himself carefully, kisses Orliīs slightly damp neck. "Alright..." Itīs the only warning Orlando gets and a second later Viggo is pressing against his tight opening, demanding entrance. Orli groans. His forehead thumps against the wall and his fingers curl, trying to grip something, anything, on the bluish tinted tiles, but there is nothing, and his hands turn into fists, pounding on the wall instead. Viggo pushes all the way in and doesnīt wait before pulling back out again. His hands are on Orlandoīs hips, steadying the younger man as he thrusts forward once more, fiercily almost. He thinks that maybe he should be a bit more gentle, scowls at himself for not taking it easier, but then Orli gasps as his prostate is stroked and begs Viggo `please harderī, begs him to be rougher, to leave bruises - memories for tomorrow - on him. It makes Viggo want to cry. He doesnīt, though, but instead grips the narrow hips harder, sure to leave marks for days, and pounds into the quivering body, trying to not moan too loudly, bites the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming with lust and frustration. When he gets home, he thinks, he will scream. Orlando mewls with appreciation, random yelps escaping his lips every time Viggo reaches a bit deeper inside him. He is pushed flush against the wall now and his own erection grinds uncomfortably against the cold tile with every thrust. He wants to reach down and stroke himself but doesnīt get any further than the thought before Vig finds his aching cock and strokes it firmly, the sensation sending shivers down Orliīs spine and ripping a choked shout from his throat. Stinging bites to his neck and shoulders, each followed by a soft kiss. They make Orlando smile with his entire face - how long has it been since he last did that? - because he knows there will be little red marks after them tomorrow. Heīll look at them in the mirror, touch them. Scratch at them a little so that theyīll stay red longer. He wishes he could wear them forever. Then all thoughts starts spinning and Orli closes his eyes as he feels the familiar sensation start building in the pit of his stomach, spreading to every part, every nerve of his body. He tenses all over and Viggo squeezes his hand around the younger manīs cock, speeding up his movements and Orlando comes onto the bluish walls. He wonders dazedly at what color they are with the lights on. Viggo thrusts once more and heats Orli up from the inside. Orlando smiles again. Viggoīs rough hands - Orlando has always thought of them as experienced rather than rough - slide up the lean, slightly shivering body, gently caressing soft arms before smoothing out Orliīs fists and threading the graceful fingers with his. He leans his head on Orlandoīs shoulder and smells the dark curls that fall on his face. "I never meant for things to turn out this way...I didnīt know," Orlando whispers, his eyes still fixed on the wall. And Viggo says, "I know," and sighs into that soft olive neck. Five minutes later Orlando will step out from the bathroom, "War is NOT the answer" flashing on his chest, and not giving a shit about what people will say or think. He will have said the three little words although heīs not supposed to and seen them be returned in Viggoīs eyes. Heīll go back to the party with his head held high and spirit down, ignore the people who ask him what that shirt is about, where he got it, where heīs been, and rub his nose a little with the sleeve to catch Viggoīs scent when he finds himself missing it. Every other minute or so. Viggo will slip into his jacket, wait another couple of minutes before going out, and then head straight out the door. Heīll be clutching Orlandoīs shirt - plain white, so not really Orlandoīs - in his hands, intending to burn it when he gets home because they both hate it. But it smells of Orlando, so Viggo will keep it in spite of itīs color. Or, rather, the lack thereof.