Viggo would've loved the hell out of this scenario. Too bad I couldn't ask him. * * * (L.A., September 20th, 2003) I barely grunted when I looked up and saw Dom at the end of the breakfast table. We never bothered knocking -- why should we? I just pointed at the half-empty pot of coffee and went back to focusing on the small, indefinable stain next to my cup. I had no idea how it'd gotten there. I'd never even noticed it until now. "Late night?" he asked, turning his chair backwards and dropping down across from me. He looked like death warmed over. It was somewhat comforting. "Yeah," I said. Or think I said. Could barely croak around the cotton in my mouth. "Where's Kate?" "Home." This was what passed for scintillating conversation at 10am. If only Teen People could listen in. Dom drank the rest of his cup in silence, and I continued to mull over the faded brown stain on my table. "What'd'you suppose this is?" I asked. "A stain." "How observant of you." I glanced down again. "I don't remember it." "Maybe you were drunk." "I don't get drunk at the house." Dom shrugged and got up, pouring himself another mug of coffee. "Too small to be a cum stain." I opened my mouth to tell him I'd never had sex on the kitchen table, then closed it. I'd never had sex here on the table, that was true. But the table didn't always used to be here. It used to belong to Viggo. "Maybe it's a gravy stain," I said. "Feel like heading to Canter's for breakfast?" * * * (L.A., October 3th, 2003) The gallery was deserted when I stepped in -- normally, there was at least one woman and her friend mulling over the pieces, and I always had to say clear, keep my hat pulled down and my sunglasses on. Not that I really think I fooled anyone, but it's like this secret code in L.A. Hat and sunglasses equals do not disturb. I sat down in front of my favorite photograph and stared at the shadowed figures dancing in the foreground. I wondered how he'd done it, what kind of lens he'd used or if it was a shutter thing or a film thing or some other secret photographer thing. He'd spent an evening once teaching me the basic of his Minolta -- speed of film, lenses, shutter time, over and under exposure, all that. Wish I'd been paying more attention to the words, rather than the fact that it'd been him saying them. Wish I'd paid attention to a lot of things. The sound of my cell phone startled me, and I glanced around in apology before flipping it open. Not sure who I was apologizing to...the pictures, maybe. Just reflex guilt, I guess. "'Lo?" "Where are you?" "Hey, Kate." I spared the photo and the shadows one last glance before getting up and stepping out of the gallery. Couldn't talk to her while I still felt his hands on me, breath in my ear. "Hey, yourself." I'd once compared her voice to cotton candy, and it still held true, even over the phone. Insanely, addictively sweet. "So, where are you?" The lie came easier than I'd thought. "Beverly and La Brea. Trying to decide on lunch. You?" "Freezing in my hotel room, desperately wishing for my breve latte about now. Go and enjoy one for me?" "Sure," I told her. "Even get that one girl you like to do the foam." "You're a doll. Love you." "Yeah. Love you, too." The bitch of it was, I meant it, too. * * *
I tried explaining it to Vig one night, after a few too many bottles of wine. He'd just cocked his head in that way he had and stared at me for a really long time. Long enough to have me looking down. When eyes that intense bored into you, it could be pretty unnerving. "I believe in regret," he'd said. "I believe it's possible...to regret without remorse." I remember that I'd thought about that for a long time, remembered thinking I was drunk and it would make sense in the morning. But it didn't. It made sense now. * * * (L.A., October 7th, 2003) Kate preferred staying home most nights, as opposed to the whole Hollywood going out, see-and-be-seen thing that Dom was so good at and I was not. I mean, I did it. But I wasn't any good at it. It was nice being with someone who wasn't any good at it, either. "Greek or Thai?" "Ah, the age old conundrum." She laughed and threw a pillow at me. I threw it back at her. Our version of an argument. "Be serious," she said. "I'm starving." "I am being serious," I said, settling back on the sofa. "How do you choose between Greek or Thai?" "How about we order both, then?" "I knew I adored you for a reason." "You do?" She pushed a few strands of baby-fine hair behind her ear and blushed. Actually blushed, not on cue. "Yeah." In the end, we decided Thai and Greek didn't go so well together, and flipped a coin. Thai. Which worked, since they delivered. "I'm flying back to Germany in two days," Kate said, stealing the last bit of beef off my plate. I forgave her. With a smile like that, she could've had my entire meal with my blessing. "Am I taking you to the airport?" It was the type of question boyfriends asked, I was told. "No, please don't. It'll be hard enough saying bye here." She looked up at me, pale eyes guileless. "When do you fly back?" "Not quite a week." "Bet it'll be good to see all of your friends," she said. I grabbed the last piece of broccoli from my phad thai. "Yeah. Missed being around everyone." "You guys are all so tight." "Yeah, we are," I told her. And we really were. No matter where I was, I could count on the others. Truly connected. Whether we all wished it or not. "D'you sometimes wish you were back there?" Her hand was warm on top of mine, and her slender, graceful fingers were just as elegant as the rest of her. "Sometimes. But I wouldn't trade now for anything," I said, and ruthlessly pushed back the memory of a pair of blue eyes. * * * (Cabo San Lucas, October 11th, 2003) Sean offered me half his bar of chocolate as he sat down. I took it gratefully. Breakfast had been a long time ago, and Wolfgang was in one of those moods. No one mentioned lunch; they just hustled. "How'd you score this?" I asked, savoring the first bite. Pure bliss. "Monique's got a bit of a crush on me." "Lucky dog." "That I am. And I even share my good fortune with my friend," Sean laughed, scratching at the hairline of his wig. "Scalp's gonna bleed to death." "Your scalp's fine," I assured him. "So, how's everyone?" I swallowed another mouthful. "They're all good," I told him. "Dom might come down to visit." "Be nice to see 'im again." Sean glanced at me out of the corner of his eye as he lit two cigarettes and handed me one. "Heard from Vig?" "No." "Orli--" "Don't, Sean. I mean it." He nodded. I'm sure he'd expected to get shot down. "Well, I heard from him." I gave him my best not-interested look. It fooled neither of us. "Oh, you did?" "Yeah, we talked." He paused, glanced at me again. "He never asked about you." I looked down and noticed I was squishing the rest of my chocolate bar. "I wouldn't expect him to." "You don't think that's odd?" He shifted in his director's chair to face me. I didn't meet his gaze. "He knows I'm fine," I said. "Orlando--" "Sean." I didn't raise my voice. I didn't have to. "This isn't up for discussion." "Should see him." Sean held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "All I'm saying." "When I have something to say, I will," I lied. I tossed the rest of my bar in the rubbish bin. Wasn't hungry after all. * * * (Cabo San Lucas, October 15th, 2003) There was nothing quite as beautiful as sunrise over the water. And Cabo had some of the most spectacular sunrises I'd ever seen. I tried to make it a ritual, y'know? At least once a week, get up early, commune with nature. Just me and the waves and the sun creeping about the horizon. It was also the only time I ever allowed myself to remember. "You know what you taste like?" I rolled over, thin sheets tangling around my legs. "Cinnamon," I told him. It wouldn't be the first time I'd gotten the comparison. "No." He drew the word out, almost as if savoring the vowel on his tongue. He had that way about him -- even the smallest moments took on a great importance. "Spring." "What?" "You taste like spring." "Y'can't taste like a season, Vig," I said, propping up on my elbows. "Sure you can." Long strands of hair fell in his face as he bent his head, licked a small path across my shoulder. "Fresh. Innocent. Sweet." Each word was punctuated by another lick. I was already reaching for him, trembling again... "Hey!" I was proud of myself for not jumping when Dom flopped down beside me, kicking up sand. "You're up early," I said, scooting over to give him more room on the blanket. "Haven't gone to bed yet." Grey eyes twinkled with amusement as he raked a hand through tangled, spiky hair. "You hidin' out?" "Nah, just taking some 'me time'." He laughed, as I'd known he would. 'Me time' -- another holdover from New Zealand. "Well, let's make it 'we time'," he told me and pulled a thermos from behind his back. My hand found his, and squeezed gently. He squeezed back, smile turning soft. We watched the rest of the sunrise in silence.
* * *
I liked the idea of no limitations. One of the most important things I ever learned was from Sir Ian McKellen on my third day filming 'Rings.' I'd gone through all of the training and rehearsals with no problems, was actually quite good. But...once the ears were on and the cameras rolling, I'd frozen up. This was for real. This was for keeps. Generations from now, people would watch Legolas. When I died, they'd mention it in my obituary. It'd been just after another blown take -- I was tired, angry at myself, aware that I was holding up production, that I was costing us money and time. I'd been positive Pete was going to fire me the way he'd done with Stu, and I'd be just another footnote in the history of this film, when Ian pulled me aside. Ian McKellen. Pulled me aside. "You looked perplexed, dear boy," he'd said, rolling his unfiltered cigarette between his lips. He'd offered me one, but I'd been too upset to take it. Knowing my luck that day, I'd have just set fire to my costume. "'M not perplexed. Just annoyed." "Ah. At yourself?" "Yeah." His wig'd fallen in his face as he'd leaned into me, lips against my ear as if he was bestowing on me the secret of the ages. Maybe he had been. I never asked. "Do you know what your problem is?" he'd whispered. "Um...no." "You want it too much." And, with that, he'd pulled back and given me a lewd wink before walking off, cigarette already lit. * * * (Wellington, New Zealand, November 30th, 2003) Absolutely no one in the world gave a hug as good as Karl. It was like his art form or something. You'd think Lawrence, big as he is, would've been better, but Karl was the one everyone went to when they'd had a bad day on set, had broken up with their S.O. or just needed human contact. And Karl gave them out like it was nothing, man, like it was his duty to hug the entire world twice over. So, when I found myself picked up and claimed in one of Karl's special full-bodied embraces, I wasn't about to complain. Too bad Kate was still filming -- would've been a sight to see Karl swallow her whole. "Hey, how's it goin'?" Karl's lips were warm on mine, and tasted faintly of oregano. The first few times he'd kissed me, I'd been a bit tweaked. Then I realized it was just a Kiwi thing and went with it. They were all incredibly affectionate. No one was immune. "It's going." I had to raise my voice to be heard over the din of the party. "Heard you're doing the new Matt Damon thing." "Yeah, yeah, flew in from Moscow for this. Bitch of a flight, mate," Karl said, and snagged some pastry-type thing from a nearby tray. His beer glass was almost empty. "How about you? How's the life of the hardest working actor of the cast?" "Hectic." We both smiled and moved to the bar for refills. "Ready for the big night tomorrow?" "Yeah, I guess." I leaned an elbow on the bar and looked around the crowded room. Cast, crew, WETA, New Line -- seemed like everyone that had played a part in the film had shown up. Then again, no one ever turned down a party when Elwood was picking up the tab. "Can't believe it's all ending." "I know. M'gonna miss you guys all coming round." "Oh, don't worry," I grinned. "We'll still find time to invade your country and your space." "Looking forward to it," Karl smiled. "What?" "What, what?" "Don't do this, Karl, I know that smirk." "It wasn't a smirk," Karl protested, giving me his most innocent smile. Didn't work. "I know you." "Yeah, alright." Karl was still smiling, but his heart wasn't in it. "Dom and Lij wanted me to keep an eye on you tonight." I paused in the act of raising my glass to my lips. "Why?" "Vig's here." "Oh." I didn't know what else to say. Yeah, I'd known this day was coming -- but I figured I'd have tonight to put on my game face. "I'm sorry, mate." Karl stepped forward, gave me another one of those full-bodied hugs. "I invited him. I'd forgotten." "It's alright," I mumbled into his shoulder. His arms felt safe. Thought maybe I'd stay awhile and breathe in the scent of talcum powder and oregano. "How's Hunter?" "He's amazing." Karl brushed his lips across my hair, and accepted the change in topic. The other lovely thing about Karl was that he always knew when it was time to order another drink. * * * When I cracked an eye open the next morning (and promptly closed it, cause, ugh, who told the sun it was okay to come out?), it felt like a full orchestra, complete with kettle drums, was playing Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" in my head. At maximum volume. And I really didn't want to know what crawled in my mouth and died. Probably something furry that would get me on RSPCA's shit list. All I knew was I'd have paid someone a thousand bucks, and gladly, if they'd brush my teeth for me. Where were groupies when you needed one? About an hour later, I finally crawled out of bed. Stumbled into the bathroom to take a much-needed piss, exhume the fungi on my teeth and splash a bit of cold water on my face. I desperately needed a shower, but that would involve vertical behavior. Wasn't quite up for that. I was definitely getting even with Karl at the first available opportunity. Soon as I figured out why my toenails were painted bright blue. The carafe -- looked like Bloody Marys, judging from the color -- was sitting in a bucket of ice on the table with a card in front of it. Alright, hold off on killing Karl. I didn't even bother with the glass. Just sat at the table and drained the contents down in a few, long swallows. When I felt I could actually focus, I opened the card. Orli -- You could probably use this. Seem to remember it working in the past. V. P.S. Great nailpolish.
* * *
To always be hungry. Elijah and I used to argue about that during make-up. He was of the philosophy that true happiness was not only possible, but something that actually could happen. "What's the point in life if you're not happy?" he'd argue. "What's the point in life without a challenge?" I'd argue back. And so on and so on, ad infinitum. Until the day Viggo came into the trailer in the middle of one such discussion. "Know what I think?" he'd asked in that slow drawl that made it impossible to tell if he was a deep thinker or just slow on the uptake. "No, not really," Elijah'd said. "It's not about the things at all. Having or wanting," he'd said. "It's about the space you create." "The, um, space?" He'd nodded at me and smiled, pale eyes finding and measuring. "Filling the space," he'd replied and got up, fingers brushing across my shoulder as he'd walked past. * * * (Wellington, New Zealand, December 1st, 2003) I called Kate just before the car pulled up to the theatre. D-day, and I needed to hear her voice. "'Lo?" "Hi, did I wake you?" I tried to do some calculations about what time it was in Germany, and came up blank. Maths was never my thing. "Yeah, but it's cool." I heard rustling, and could picture her brushing her hair out of her face and sitting up, all her eighteen pillows piled around her. "Where are you?" "Wellington." "Premiere's tonight, right, yeah?" She sounded groggy, voice thick, and I shifted, trying to ease sudden tension behind my zip. "How's that going?" "Good," I said, glancing out the tinted window at the hordes of people and press. "Look, I just wanted to call and tell you I love you, alright?" "Yeah, okay." Her voice went soft, like melted butter. "I love you, too, Orlando. So much. Call me later, when I'm awake?" "You bet." The echo of her voice lingered long after the crowd swallowed me. * * * "This is fucking fantastic, isn't it?" Elijah yelled, waving to another group of screaming girls. He was so the Paul of the Fellowship. "Yeah, it's something," I shouted back, and dutifully posed for another picture. Didn't people get tired of looking at me? "Think the whole city's here." He sounded far too pleased about that. "Seems like." Another volley of flashes exploded, temporarily blinding me. This was the part I hated most about my job. I'd need new retinas by age fifty. "How're you holding up?" A silky voice murmured in my ear, and I turned to face Karl's amused look. "You're an evil man," I told him, already wrapping my arms around him for my hug. "Yeah, but I'm good at it," Karl grinned. "How's the head?" "Better now. No thanks to you." "Ah, well, I do what I can." "Wanna explain the nail polish?" "It was all your idea," Karl grinned again, and kissed my forehead before tugging me forward. "C'mon." "Where're we going?" I asked, not that I really cared. I was in a lovely city, surrounded by friends, and had the proverbial love of a good woman. What else could I possibly want?" Then Karl stopped behind a familiar set of shoulders, and I forgot to breathe.
* * *
It was just my name. I had to keep telling myself that as I schooled my features into impassiveness, and looked into pale blue eyes. "Vig." "Hey, Viggo." Karl waked right into Viggo's arms and enveloped him in a crushing embrace. The kiss they shared was only marginally longer than the one Karl'd given me. I'd've given anything to be someplace else. "Mr. Mortensen, Mr. Bloom, Mr. Urban...a few photographs, please?' Karl whirled around and grinned. "Absolutely," he said, and scooted me between him and Viggo. Trapped. In the last place I wanted to be. "M'sorry," I mumbled, as Karl snaked a hand across my waist. "No worries." Viggo smiled for the cameras. Not too many would've guessed his smile was as fake as mine. He still smelled of gardenia-scented soap and ink. His arm brushed mine, hairs sliding over hairs, and for a moment, I remembered the taste of sweat, the feel of roughened palms sliding over my scalp, remembered that slow drawl reading me his own poetry, stumbling over words, and launching into a raunchy joke the next breath. Remembered every time he'd laughed at me, with me, drinking beer out of the same glass, careful to sip exactly where I had so we could share ghost kisses. For a brief moment, I longed for New Zealand again. Then the cameras stopped whirring. "C'mon, let's go grab a drink," Karl said, tugging me on the arm, and out of the past. "Yeah." I managed a small smile. "But no drinking me under the table and no painting my nails." "Scout's honor." "You were never a Scout." Karl grinned. "True. I'll be at the bar." And, with that, he left me alone with Viggo. Um. Well. "You look good," Viggo remarked, shoving his hands in the rumpled pockets of his pants. His hair was shaggy, short, lighter than it'd been last time I'd seen him. He'd gained some muscle, wasn't quite as rangy as I'd remembered. Looked good on him. But it was, always would be, his eyes that held me captive. "Yeah, thanks, you too." "How's Kate?" "She's good. Sends everyone her love." I raked a hand through my hair. Was this what we were reduced to? Platitudes? Small talk at premieres after avoiding each other for fuck knew how long? "This is ridiculous," I said. "I agree." Viggo looped the strap of his digicam around his wrist, and cocked his head. "Meet me tomorrow for breakfast?" "Yeah, sure." Anything to get away from this...space between us. From the ghosts. "Thanks for the Bloody Marys this morning." "You're welcome. 7AM. Hotel lobby." I nodded and bolted as fast as I could to the bar, and Karl. * * * It was 7:15 when I finally strolled into the lobby. Viggo was already waiting, as I'd known he would be. That was the thing about Viggo. He didn't flake out. Flaking out was, apparently, my job. He didn't say anything when I walked up, just held out a hand. His jeans had faded patches and paint streaks on them, and his shirt looked slept in. He looked like a college student. Or the hippie he truly was. Our palms and fingers slid and fit together the same way they always had. I didn't ask where we were going. I already knew. The park beside the hotel boasted one of those Roman-style fountains, complete with gurgling gargoyles and coins scattered in the bottom of the pool. So many wishes. I wondered how many of them had been fulfilled. I wondered how many wished they hadn't been. Viggo sat on the wrought iron bench, and I sat beside him, keeping a crucial bit of distance between us. Pigeons flocked around us, hoping for a hand-out, and Viggo pulled a small bag of birdseed from his jeans pocket. He tossed it out a handful at a time, and I watched the sunlight glimmer through the trees, inhaled the rich scent of freshly mowed grass. "You seem troubled," Viggo finally said. I glanced over at him. He wasn't wearing sunglasses -- he never did -- and the crinkles around his eyes somehow seemed more pronounced. "Why would I be troubled?" I asked. I didn't look back over at him again. "You didn't call on my birthday." "I forgot. I'm sorry." It was a lie, and we both knew it. "Why're you sorry?" His voice had taken on that slow, slumberous quality that he only ever got right after sex, or when he was about to fuck with my world. Hadn't I given him enough? "I don't know," I told him, squinting as I stared out at the fountain. "You got any change?" "Yeah, why?" I held out my palm. "I need to make a wish." "What would you wish for? You have everything." This time, I forced myself to look up, to keep my eyes locked with his. Forced myself to study every nuance and shadow, the sharp curve of cheekbones, that indent on his chin that I used to rake with my teeth. "I don't have everything I want, Vig. Isn't that the point of wishing?" "What would you wish for?" he repeated. I didn't answer. I just waited. When his tongue pushed past my teeth a second later -- the heat of his body pressing fully against mine -- I welcomed it the way a condemned prisoner would his own execution. With open arms. * * * The sheets were still damp with sweat and come and carelessly spilled lotion, but Viggo didn't seem to care. He rolled on his back, one hand flung above his head. I sat up, and started rooting around for my briefs. I found them tangled in the comforter at the foot of the bed. I fancied I could still feel the press of Viggo's fingers against the cotton as he'd dragged them over my hips. "This isn't going to solve anything, you know," he said. He was looking up at the ceiling in bored fascination. I didn't bother. I wouldn't see what he saw, anyway. I never did. "You're right, it won't," I replied, and gave him a swift kiss before getting up. He stayed in the bed, tanned skin splayed against white sheets. "You should think about a self-photo shoot sometime," I said. "Yeah?" "Yeah." I slid my jeans on, but didn't bother to button my shirt. I was just going back to my room to shower anyway. "Happy birthday." "Fuck you," he said, but there wasn't any real heat behind it. I gathered my shoes and turned to face him. "I'll call you," I told him. We both knew I wouldn't. "Yeah. I'll call you, too." We both knew he wouldn't. The only thing we didn't know how to do was how to stop.
* * *
Gradually, we just gave up. Searched less, called less, stopped jerking our heads around at the sound of barking, stopped staring whenever a collie would pass our way. She wasn't dead. At least, I never thought she was. Bored, maybe, just needing to be free -- but not dead. She wasn't dead, but we grieved for her all the same. She wasn't dead, but that didn't mean we didn't mourn. * * * (Berlin, Germany, December 12th, 2003) Kate met me at the airport herself. She was bundled up in an over-sized, fur-lined coat and holding a bouquet of posies. No idea where she'd gotten them. A black pair of sunglasses hid her pretty, expressive eyes, but I didn't need to see them to know she was happy to see me. The toe-curling kiss pretty much took care of that angle. "How was your flight?" she asked, when we were on our way back to her hotel. "Long," I sighed, reaching over to snag one of her hands. "Missed you." "Missed you, too." Her smile was shy, endearing. "Feel like talking about it?" "No, not really," I replied, sinking into my seat with closed eyes. "You don't mind, do you?" "They're your secrets, Orlando." "Not just mine." "Okay." I thought back to my last morning in New Zealand. The quarter -- stolen from Viggo's jeans -- had arced gracefully through the air, spinning and twirling, before landing in the fountain. Heads up. No, you don't get everything you wish for. But that's the entire point. Onto Excidera
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