salixbabylon | Fic: The Right Fit (3/3)

Title: The Right Fit
Author:

salixbabylon
Pairing: OB/VM
Rating: NC-17
Archiving: My site, Aniron, CIB, Mirrormere, and others upon request ONLY.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Disclaimer: Complete fiction. I am implying nothing about the real sexual preferences of the actors herein. Absolutely no disrespect is meant to them.

Summary: Orlando feels like his body doesn't belong to him anymore.

Thank yous: To

heartofslash for her brilliant-goddess-betaing, and to

willowwing for letting me bounce ideas around one night. And to Cindy Lou, always.

Part 1
Part 2

The Right Fit

He wakes up in the middle of the night to piss and realizes Viggo's been in to remove his shoes and cover him up with a quilt. He drinks three glasses of water and takes some aspirin in hopes of preventing the hangover he's surely earned, and goes back to sleep.

In the morning Viggo's eyes feel like they're burning into him and Orlando regrets. He regrets drinking so much, babbling so much, whining so much. Regrets coming here, to a place that doesn't fit, where he feels even less like he belongs in his skin. He regrets that taking a break, leaving LA; it hasn't seemed to help. Regrets telling all of that crap to Viggo last night, regrets that their friendship isn't the same as it was, regrets ever bloody calling Viggo in the first place.

Just regrets. Full stop.

"Hey," Viggo says, giving him a piercing look, "Stop doing that." And Orlando knows Viggo can't read his mind but also knows Viggo knows what he's thinking anyway. Because it's not that uncommon, is it? They're all famous now, everyone who worked on "Rings." They've all been through it. Some to more degrees than others, but still. This isn't the first time an actor has felt fucked over by the industry and the media and the fans and and and. And it won't be the last, either.

Viggo puts it all into perspective, with four words.

Or maybe Orlando is giving him too much credit. Maybe.

Viggo suggests they go hiking today, and hints at fishing but then ends up with his camera stuff instead of fishing gear. Orlando hopes out loud that Viggo's not going to take any shots of him, please, because the flash of a camera just might drive him mad and he'd have to go raving across meadows full of wildflowers and would be sure to spook some elk or something. Viggo smiles a little and assures him that the camera won't be focused at him unless he wants it to be.

They walk for a while, at an easy stride, together. They are of a height and fall into step with each other without effort, somewhere between ambling and walking purposefully. Viggo is taking shots of trees and the horizon and birds, the camera hanging around his neck. The noise starts to annoy Orlando, who can't reconcile the paparazzi-sound with the old Viggo-the-photographer-in-New Zealand-sound. There's nothing wrong with what Viggo is doing, but Orlando's getting cranky anyway and feels like a bratty toddler, and angry with himself because of it.

He takes a few steps away from where Viggo is focusing on... a rock or something, and sits down in the weeds. Stretches out on the hard ground. The sky overhead is the kind of blue that seems unreal, the perfect match to the Crayola "sky blue," with big puffy candy-floss clouds. So clear it goes on forever. Literally, he thinks, since it goes all the way out to the blackness of space. Light on the inside, dark on the outside. How he used to be...

Now he's the reverse, he thinks. But maybe... Maybe he doesn't have to be.

Maybe fuck all of them, the fans and the stalkers and the press and his publicist and all of the whole fucking industry.

Just sod them all.

He used to like it, when Viggo took his picture, in New Zealand. He used to hope it meant something. Was sure it did, in fact.

But wishing doesn't make a thing true. He knows that now. Five years have taught him a lot, mostly things he wishes he didn't know. But he's still here with Viggo, somehow, and whatever it meant to be the focus of Viggo's camera then, it's different now. But it's different from being the focus of the press, media, fans, industry, too. Maybe.

"Vig," he calls out, in a voice that sounds a lot more serious than he ever sounded five years ago. "Can I take your picture?"

Viggo clicks a few more shots and then comes over to him. He unwraps the camera from around his neck and holds it out to Orlando, who is still lying down on the ground. "Like this?" Viggo asks.

Orlando gets up and has Viggo take his place on the ground. There are bits of weeds all over, wild grasses or something, and little bitty flowers, purple and yellow, mixed in. Viggo looks up at the sky, squints a bit, while Orlando fiddles with the focus, getting the hang of it.

It's been a long time since he was on this side of any kind of camera. It's good.

Viggo looks... so alive, out here. He's just lying there, occasionally stretching, moving his hands across the green things growing, taking deep breaths. Sometimes his eyes are closed, sometimes open. He's so beautiful; Orlando can't remember the last time he saw something, someone, like this. Breathtaking.

The sun is at its peak and it's warm. Viggo starts slowly shrugging off clothes, shoes, socks, followed by his button-down shirt. He's such a nudist. So comfortable with his body. Orlando is envious; the last time he felt like that was on a beach on the other side of world, five years in the past. The last time he remembers feeling safe and comfortable and happy in his skin. Blessed by the earth and the sky.

He wants to feel that way again.

"More," he says. And Viggo raises his eyebrows, but takes off his t-shirt. Orlando stands, waiting, and after a few shots, Viggo pulls off his jeans, too. Viggo, naked in the wild grass and flowers. Basking in the sun. At peace.

Orlando isn't sure if he's blessed, to see such a beautiful thing, or thankful to be so honored that Viggo is this comfortable around him, or jealous that it isn't him, lying there in the sunshine so peacefully. All three at once, probably. He takes a bunch of shots, zooming in and out, not thinking about it at all, just moving the camera around. Whatever comes out, it will be great, because it's Viggo and he looks so happy. Is so gorgeous.

Fuck.

And Orlando still wants him after all these years, and the sight of Viggo like this is having an effect on his body. Taking a deep breath, he bends closer, "Can I, uh," he says, and slowly reaches towards Viggo's arm, to move it out of the way.

"You can do anything," Viggo sighs in a voice that sounds drunk or high or just totally serene. "Be anything."

Maybe.

Maybe Orlando really can.

He leans forward and kisses Viggo gently on the cheek. He whispers, "Can I?" into his ear and is answered when Viggo turns his head and meets Orlando's lips with his own.

The kiss is slow, exploring, finding each other. Viggo relaxes, lets Orlando be in control, makes a pleased noise when Orlando's tongue gently spreads his lips apart. The smells of the green things, of the crisp air, of warm Viggo, tease Orlando's nose and that, combined with the first kiss he's really enjoyed in god knows how long, has him moaning, too. He pulls back to look at Viggo for a moment, who smiles and pulls him back for another kiss.

Their mouths explore each other as Orlando's hands trace what his eyes already know so well, reveling in the solidity, the reality of Viggo. A man who is who he is, no apologies, no excuses, and not much uncertainty. Orlando isn't sure for a moment if he wants to *be* Viggo or fuck him, and then decides that it doesn't matter. Viggo's hands are pulling at his clothes and he can figure it all out later; it feels right, so much righter than he's felt in ages. It fits.

The hands on his body are not small and fragile, not cold, with varnished fingernails. Not controlling. They are comforting, strong, and make him feel safe but not trapped. The ground is hard but solid. The sky is warm and clean.

Viggo spreads their shirts out into a makeshift blanket while Orlando takes off the rest of his clothes. Naked, he feels vulnerable and unsure of what they're doing, if it's right, what will come of it.

"Come here," Viggo says, "Lie back," and spreads Orlando out to the sky, bare and exposed, sculpted muscles, straight hair, and all. And Viggo looks at him, really looks, and for the first time Orlando feels *seen*. Not as Orlando Fucking Bloom, but just as himself. Viggo's hands caress him and it feels right; it's *his* body, not theirs, not anyone else's. They don't matter at all, out here, under the benevolent gaze of Viggo's sky-blue eyes.

This is for him. His body is his own.

They roll together, touching and tasting, not hurried, but this isn't lingering, gentle, 'making love', either. Whatever this is, it's what Orlando needs. "Thank you for this," he whispers. Viggo kisses him again, saying everything that means anything, without words. Orlando understands.

And he feels like everything's going to be all right when Viggo rolls back, pulling Orlando on top, spreading his legs apart. "This ok?" Viggo asks in that low rasp, and Orlando nods. He strokes Orlando's cock, then angles it down between his legs. "We can just..." Viggo says, as he squeezes his thighs closed, trapping Orlando's erection, "...unless you have...?"

Orlando nods, and the spell is broken for a moment. Right. Of course he has condoms in his knapsack; his assistants stick them in when they think he's not looking, and he's actually a little touched that they care about his safety and health, even if they do seem to think he's a slut. He's not of course, but it's true he does get lonely some times, and maybe twice a year he takes someone to bed and tries to forget that they're fucking Orlando Bloom, Movie Star, instead of him.

But this is different anyway. Viggo is giving, not taking. Offering, not assuming. Touching *him*, not the shape of his body, not his name, not his celebrity. This is outdoors, under the sky, in the grass. This is not for loneliness or notoriety, but for friendship and comfort and maybe even love. Orlando knows he feels all three.

Viggo is tight, and Orlando tries to be slow preparing him, but his body is shaking; it's been so long since he's had this with another man, with someone who cared about him, and he's wanted Viggo for so long. More than just wanted him, too. He knows Viggo's not ready but he accepts the invitation to "Just do it, please," and pushes in as slowly as he can. He can tell Viggo's in pain, but he seems happy too, a combination Orlando is familiar with. He adds some more lube and starts a steady pace.

Their breathing and groaning gets loud enough to frighten some birds out of a nearby bush, and they both laugh, letting the joy of it all carry them along, higher and higher. Orlando is straining to hold back his climax, can't believe how good this feels, so tight, so strong, so *right*. Not just in his cock, but in his whole body, in his chest, in his heart. For a moment he's not sure if he's on top of Viggo or a divine spirit, a nature god himself.

"This is you," Viggo says, and it doesn't make sense for a moment but then it does, profoundly. And Orlando lets go and shoves in deep and hard, throwing his head back and shouts "YES!" at the top of his lungs and it's the best orgasm he's ever ever EVER had, because it's him, this right now is *him*. For himself, only. And for Viggo, who gave this to him.

He feels his face split into the old grin, an expression that's been gone way too long, but it feels good to grin so big it hurts, as he slides his hand down Viggo's belly. He finds with some surprise that Viggo already came; he says Orlando's joy was irresistible and they laugh long and hard, down to the bone, and the hard earth under them laughs, too.

They roll together, off the impromptu blanket and there's a rock under Orlando's head, but it's still perfect. He feels better than he thinks he's ever felt, like Viggo made him whole again, like his body is his own again, and everything is going to be all right. He isn't his muscles or his face or his hair or his name. He's Orlando Fucking Bloom, who is just him.

He fits.

~end~