Poetic Justice

The twitching and whimpering woke Viggo. Blinking sleepily he lay confused for a few moments before reality struck him with the blow of one thin yet hard arm across his head. “Christ,” he whispered, sitting up.

Beside him in the queen-sized bed Orlando was now flailing as he cried out. “No! No, don’t. Please don’t!” The cry had turned into a mewling little whimper once more. But then it all changed. The hurt and vulnerable man-child began to breathe heavier, and his face twisted in rage. “Not this time. Not this time.”

Viggo worried the Brit would hurt himself so he gently shook the thin shoulder. “Orli, wake up. It’s just a dream. Wake up.” He barely ducked the swinging fist that flew as the younger man screamed in bloodthirsty rage. “Whoa, pal, it’s me, Viggo!”

Panting Orlando stared unseeing at the older man until the lingering effects of the dream lifted like mist rising, and reality set in. “Viggo?”

“Yeah, kid, it’s Viggo.” He hesitantly touched him, easing him back down to the pillow. “Sorry to wake you, but I figured I better before you killed me in your sleep. Some dream, huh?”

“He had me again,” Orlando whispered, voice hoarse. “And then something happened. I started to fight back, and I was winning.”

“Good.” Maybe it would be therapeutic for Orli to overpower his attacker in his dreams. Maybe it meant he was mentally healing as well as physically so.

“I had him, Viggo, and I was so angry I…” A flush suffused the battered face. “I wanted to kill him. No, that wasn’t enough. I wanted to hurt him. Hurt him worse than he did me. I wanted to hear him scream and beg, and not stop. I didn’t want to stop.”

The deadly cold in the otherwise soft voice began to worry the older man. There was no trace of the naïve and innocent young man he’d known once before. There had always been that alluring hint of boyhood about the mature young man. So young and fresh, and full of hope for his future, a charming attribute that had won over his fellow cast members and even made the older ones feel protective of him. Now that was shadowed by a dark coldness that made Viggo shiver in apprehension.

Orlando wet his cracked and healing lips. “Viggo? You got anything to eat? I’m starved.”

A bright smile lit the older face. “Yeah, I’m sure I’ve got something. How ‘bout we go raid the fridge and cupboards?”

Beaming Orlando rose, nodding. “Sounds good to me.” He flushed to see he was still nude, the towel having fallen off in his sleep.

“I have some sweats you can wear,” Viggo told him, and quickly got them out of a drawer. “They might be a little big on you.”

“Thanks,” sheepishly mumbled the younger male, and quickly drew them up. He was following the older man who was in a pair of form fitting boxers only, and pulling and tying the drawstring of the sweats. They still hung low on his hips, but so long as they didn’t fall to his ankles he was happy.

“Okay, we have… a lot of nothing.” Viggo shut the fridge door and moved to the cupboards.

Orlando opened the fridge door and arched a brow. “Shit, Viggo, don’t you eat?” Inside he found an opened box of Harm and Hammer baking soda, three bottles of water, a lemon, and a bottle of ketchup.

The cupboards were pretty bare too. “I guess I need to do groceries. Meantime, let’s order in.” He went to a drawer and opened it to reveal dozens of pamphlets from take out places. “What are you in the mood for?”

The young Brit neared to peer at the pamphlets. “Chinese?” he hopefully asked as his friend fiddled with a few other pamphlets.

An hour later they sat in the living room, Orlando perched on cushions on the floor, and Viggo in his favourite worn plush chair. The big screen T.V. set was on, and they were watching The Fellowship of The Ring. “I remember trying so hard to keep up with you, and thinking I should be able to because I’m so young. Elves are supposed to be graceful and quick and light footed, and next to you I was none of those.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Legolas,” grinned the older man. “You did great. You certainly had all the girls sighing in the theatres, or screaming your name at premieres.”

Flushing Orli shook his head. “Not really. It was Aragorn they were all so in lust with. You were the perfect hero. You were Aragorn, Viggo. So much so that sometimes we had to work hard at remembering what your real name was.”

“I like this part,” Viggo nodded to the screen. “The part where we battled that Cave Troll in Moria.”

“It was hot, chaotic, and confusing.”

“Precisely. I love it. Everyone had a moment to shine. Look at you! The way Legolas runs across that chain and leaps onto it is cool, man.”

Orlando couldn’t stop grinning at the bright smile that lit up the older man’s face, creating deep wrinkles around the eyes and mouth. “I liked Lothlorien. Cate looked wicked, and it was all so ethereal.”

“I miss those days,” Viggo sighed.

At the same time they spoke, “Helm’s Deep,” and laughed.

“That was nightmarish,” Orlando shook his head, spearing a huge piece of celery from the Almond Guy Ding. “I was never more wet or more cold.”

“It kicked ass,” the older man chuckled, a glow in his eyes.

“You’re a masochist,” the younger man shook his head in wonder. “Only you’d find several months of night shoots in a deluge of fake cold rain something fantastic.” He paused a few moments, and a familiar light entered his dark eyes, reminiscent of his character Legolas when told they would hunt Orcs. “It was pretty cool, wasn’t it?”

Viggo’s reply was a wicked grin, both dark brows shooting up.