Viggo pretended not to notice, not to care, not to feel his world shattercrashsnap, when Karl took Orlando's hand and dragged him -- willingly and fuck, Orlando looked so happy, so amazingly, overwhelmingly happy -- off into the theatre. Viggo'd always known that it was too good to last. Should have kept away, should've let them burn out on their own. Moved too fast, so unlike him -- he always thought things through, always deliberated, mused, studied the angles. Something about Karl, though... Viggo had tumbled head first, eyes open, known what the ending would be, known how the last reel would play out. Known his importance, because, of course he had. He and Karl were friends. Good friends. And he and Orlando used to be so close. He knew these men. Fuck, though, a little more warning would have been nice -- couldn't they have given him some more time? Just a bit. A chance to get used to this new change, this finality, this new/old twist. He'd actually begun to hope when nothing had happened in New York. Thought maybe, just maybe, his timing had been right, after all. Thought -- what he got for thinking -- that everything was alright, was cool, that Orlando was cool, Karl was cool, they could all be adults. Viggo would be adult about this. Right, yeah, adult. He could do it. Step forward, back into the spotlight, answer more questions, joke with Bernard, swap cameras with Elijah and, ohfuckdon'tKarlpleasedon't make this worse. Wouldn't step back, wouldn't shatter when Karl's warmth seeped into his skin, chin rested on Viggo's shoulder. "We need to talk." And yeah, Viggo knew that, knew Karl needed to say it and he needed to hear it and they should have an adult conversation, the inevitable conversation that would change the boundaries yet again, shiftslide his world into yet another pattern. Knew this, of course he did. Knew exactly what Karl would say, because, fuck. Just look at them. The way Karl's hand had rested on Orlando's back. The way Orlando's eyes had followed Karl. The way they were so in tune with each other without even realizing it. And it was all the more potent because they didn't realize it. It simply was. Wasn't he enough, why wasn't he enough, why wasn't his touch, his warmth, his laughter, his body enough? Dangerous thoughts, and Viggo was old enough to know better. Didn't stop his hand from tightening over Karl's when Karl led him to a private corner, away from the noise and crowd. Didn't stop him from wanting to demand, ask, wonder 'hey, isn't my hand enough, can't you feel the connection, feel the pulse, feel the way our fingers, palms, wrists, slip and slide, and why isn't this enough, what strange, mystical connection, thing does Orlando have that I don't?' But, of course, he said nothing of the sort. They weren't questions Karl could answer anyway. Wasn't sure Karl would even want to answer them, wasn't sure he'd even want to hear it if Karl did. "Look, I know this is --" "Stop." Viggo took the step back, let his hand fall away, mourned the loss, wanted to hold on, to fight. Not that it would do any good. Inevitable. "It's alright, Karl." Even though it really wasn't. "I understand." Even though he didn't. "Yeah?" Pain -- fuck -- sharpbright, when Karl's eyes lit up, his voice shook in relief. And Viggo knew -- like he knew his name, Henry's birthday, the quiet sounds Karl made when they kissed -- that he could push this. Lay on the guilt, buy some more time, halt the progression, force Karl to give in. And, oh, he wanted, fuck he wanted, wasn't ready to go home alone, wasn't ready to pretend, to go back, retread, wasn't ready for the awkward pauses in conversation, wasn't ready to give them timespacedistance, whatever it was they needed to give each other. And it was precisely because he wasn't ready that he took the next step back. "Yeah," he said. "It's alright." And ohyes, pain again, just as sharp, when Karl's smile -- white teeth, full lips, bright eyes -- lit his face. "Thank you, Vig." Tamped down desireneedpleading when Karl's lips brushed his cheek. Bit his lip hard, counted to ten, twenty, in English, Danish and Spanish, when Karl stepped away, snagged Orlando's arm. Forced himself to watch -- torture, yes, look away, don't rubberneck, don't go there, don't look -- when Karl bent his head, whispered something in Orlando's ear. Controlled the ache, the pain, yes, needle sharp, when Orlando gave Karl a disbelieving, hopeful smile. Watched as Karl returned it, fingers trailing down Orlando's arm. A promise. "You alright?" Viggo glanced down into Elijah's too wide, too knowing eyes, and nodded once, the movement sharp. "Yeah," he lied. "I'll be fine." And Elijah, bless him, chose to believe the lie, make it reality. "Well, come on, then," he said, tugging on Viggo's hand. "Show must go on." Yeah. The show must go on.
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