Poetic Justice

“Why the bloody hell do I have to see a therapist?”

Viggo sighed, lips compressing a moment, and eyes narrowing as he applied the razor to his cheek. “Because you went through a traumatic event, and you need to talk about it.”

“I could talk to you,” argued the younger male, mulishly keeping his arms crossed over his chest and leaning against the doorjamb. One foot shifted and toyed with the end of the bath mat that lay on the floor. “I’d much rather talk to you than anyone else.”

It amazed the older man how Orlando could be so battered and still look so fucking adorable. “I’m not a qualified therapist. I could listen, but I wouldn’t know how to help you, or handle the feedback from emotions being laid bare.”

“So even you think it’s not a good idea to open up that kettle of fish.” Pushing forward he leaned closer to his friend, his dark gaze mutinously locked on the blue one in the mirror.

“I never said that, and quit putting words in my mouth. I said I wasn’t qualified. A licensed therapist is. She could help you…”

“She?” Orlando’s brows knitted in a fierce scowl, and his teeth flashed in a grimace. “How’s a woman supposed to understand what it’s like to be a male raped by another male? How is she supposed to help me get over the things he did to me? Huh?”

The razor froze just below Viggo’s up-tilted chin, and without moving he turned his eyes to the youth. “Why don’t you ask her that when she gets here? She’ll be here in a few minutes. Look, give her a half hour, and if you really can’t talk to her then you won’t have to again. Deal?”

Considering it the younger man nodded abruptly. Hefting himself up on the counter he was now able to look down at his friend. “I was dreaming again last night after the movies we watched.”

“You mean this morning after the movies we watched?”

Waving that away dismissively Orlando took up the small hand towel and dabbed shaving cream off Viggo’s ear. Why the man persisted in using an old-fashioned razor and cream when he could afford the best electric shaver he’d never know. “He was attacking me again, but this time Aragorn showed up.”

Rinsing the razor in the sink of soapy water Viggo glanced up at him. He was smiling, looking more like his old self again. “Well? Did Aragorn save you?”

“He did, and then…” A frown erased the smile, and then he shrugged. “I can’t remember.” Sliding down off the counter he headed out of the bathroom. “I have to get dressed.”

Thoughtfully Viggo watched the retreating back. It shouldn’t have been a big deal that the kid had lied, but it bothered him nonetheless. Probably because he was very worried that the pent-up rage that was inside Orlando was manifesting itself in his dreams, and without a proper outlet to rid himself of it on Viggo feared it could be dangerous.

The therapist was a woman in her forties, pretty but not beautiful. Orlando sat on the sofa, and she sat in Viggo’s favourite chair, both of them letting the silence that hung heavily in the air continue to do so. The silence finally drove the Brit up the wall, and he glowered up at her. “So how much do you get paid for sitting here doing nothing?”

“It’s not up to me to begin,” she calmly replied. “When you’re ready to talk you will, and I’ll listen.”

“I don’t think it would work out,” he shrugged.

“Why not? Because I’m a woman?”

She began to remind him of Cate, graceful and calm. “Actually, yeah. How could a female therapist understand what it feels like to be a man raped by another man? How would you know what it felt like to have him ripping you up inside your…?”

“Don’t hold back on my account. You’d be surprised what I’ve heard over the years.”

The calm in her eyes angered him. “Really? You’ve heard a man tell you how much it hurt to feel another man’s cock ripping his ass up? You’ve heard him tell you how degraded he felt when that man urinated on his head just for the pleasure of it? Or that while he’s pounding into you he’s calling you ‘Pretty Boy’ and telling you how you feel better than any woman’s…”

He choked on the words, banging a fist on the sofa cushion in frustration when tears fell. She gave him a moment to compose himself, holding back from reaching out to touch him, even if it had been to soothe him. She had to remain professional. “Actually, Mr. Bloom, I was raped once too. By another woman.”

Stunned Orlando’s head snapped up, and he stared at her. “You’re just saying that.”

“Oh no, I’m not. Three of them held me down so she could have her way with me. The gender of the attacker does not define cruelty. I was nineteen, and thought my world was over. When I began to see a therapist I realized it was helping. I moved away, enrolled in college and volunteered at a crisis center. I realized I wasn’t alone, and it led me to becoming a therapist myself.”

“I don’t want to become a therapist,” he sniffled, finding a handkerchief and wiping at his nose.

“What do you want?” she smiled.

“I want to hurt him,” Orlando admitted. “I didn’t want to think t wht what he’d done to me, or think of him. I made myself do it, and things started to change.”

“Change how?”

“I wasn’t as afraid of him anymore. I was mad,” frowning the young man stared unseeingly off towards the opposite wall. “I began to have dreams. He’d attack me, like he had, but I’d fight him off. I’d have the power. And do to him a lot of the things he did to me.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Hit him, bite him, and kick him.” His voice trailed off.

“Do you rape him?” Confused dark eyes moved to look sideways at her, but he remained silent. “It’s natural to be angry, Mr. Bloom. It’s natural to want those who hurt us to be hurt back.”

“Viggo and I watched Fellowship and Two Towers last night, and we talked about the fun times we had in New Zealand filming them. I had a dream again, and when I was attacked Aragorn rescued me.” He shrugged, smiled fondly.

She had seen the movies, and was familiar with the character. “Was it easier for you to accept having a hero come to your rescue than to have to try to be in power on your own?” She tried another tact when he made no reply. “Viggo was the one who went to the hospital and took you in, isn’t he?”

Nodding Orlando sighed. “He’s a lot like Aragorn, I guess. He swore no one would ever hurt me again.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Hell yes! Viggo doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean. That’s the kind of man he is.”

“So he’s your hero in real life too,” she nodded.

“He’s… he’s Viggo. You can’t understand that until you’ve spent two years with him.” A flush mottled the battered face. “If anyone deserves to have the label hero he does.”

“You care for him, that’s very obvious. He must care very much for you to have done all he has so far for you.”

“He’s bloody amazing,” Orlando agreed.