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Flying With Eagles	By : Zar Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 10191 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Title: Flying with Eagles
Author: Zar
Email: zarakan@hotmail.com
LJ: http://www.livejournal.com/users/squishypiglet/
Warnings: This is slash. Don't like it? Don't read it!
Pairings: Viggorli with special guest Eric Bana.
Disclaimer: This is not true, despite all my wishes.
Summary: The door…the memories…the darkness…

NOTE: I had a hell of a time writing this, and I was just about to give up. If you are interested, you can go read my LJ. But note that in the future, the characters might be slightly...different, and it is entirely intentional.

WARNING: This is a WHOPPING 4,300 words of whining, whinging, pouting, crying, moaning, melodramatic Viggo. Youe bee been WARNED!! And it's super long, I know, so don't depress me by telling me you fell asleep reading it.

Chapter 32

Dark. Looks grainy…but feels smooth. Whorls that go round and round. Simple, natural. Warm.

Tarnished silver. Slippery. Shiny. Decorated, ornate. Cold.

One hand is stroking the smooth surface of my front door, and the other gripping tightly onto the handle.

The cold bite of the metal against the soothing warmth of the wood.

I can stand here on my doorstep examining the doorway all day. But the truth remains the same – I don’t want to go in.

What will be waiting for me? The loneliness, sadness and frustration, I can deal with – I’ve long been their friends. But what won’t let me rest?

The memories of Him. Remembering and reminiscing the times we shared in the place no one dared disturb us…and I can’t bear to think that this space will only hold half of what it should now.

There will be only me.

The handle is gripped tighter till I can feel the edges biting into my skin, but I ignoreand and concentrate on keeping the memories at bay. My head feels heavy so I lean it against the door…my eyes are weary so I close them. But even then, in my mind’s eye, I see what I used to have, and now, the bare desolateness that lingers and remains.

I don’t want that – but it’s what will be waiting for me when I finally open this door.

Don’t want to see the empty seat next to me on the couch.

Don’t want to paint in a room where a god once stood, watching in quiet awe as I created my art.

Don’t want to lay my head down on the pillow where rumpled curls once resided.

Don’t want to cook when I am the only one eating.

Don’t want to pour drinks when there is no singing figure perched up on the counter, gently kicking his feet as he watches my every move.

Don’t want to talk when there is no one to listen.

Don’t want to see the ghost of the one man who made me happy and loved.

Why hasn’t he called?

I am shocked out ofstupstupor when the damn device suddenly rings the cheerful bird tune my god had set for fun, stating that “you can’t be a broody artist when you’ve got a phone that chirps!”

Dropping my keys in my haste to answer the phone, I am all but in a frenzy when I finally get it out and clutch it desperately against my ear, stabbing viciously at the ‘pick up’ button.

“Muffin! Why haven’t you called, are you okay? Is something wrong? Why didn’t you call me? Where are you – ”

“Viggo…it’s me.”

The sudden switch of emotion wrings a toll on me and I find myself leaning back against the door, bracing myself to slowly sink bonelessly to the floor next to the damn door.

From the hopeless inevitable return to ‘Eagles’; to sudden delight at hearing his call…and ultimately back to depression and disheartenment. Ladies and gentlemen – my life story.

“Viggo? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Beanie.”

“Then why aren’t you in the flat yet?” he demanded.

The daft idiot must be in the carpark looking up through the huge windows into my flat waiting to see if I got in yet. Does he have nothing better to do? Does he think I could possibly get lost on my way to the fourth floor? Take a wrong turn at the lift? Go to the wrong floor?

“Stop trying to peer into my apartment and go home.”

“No. If I don’t see you inside in two minutes, I am coming up. I can’t believe I let you convince me into bring you back here already. It’s been what? Only three days since – ”

Beanie has a terrible habit of rambling on and on when he’s nervous or worried, so n’t n’t even bother listening anymore, staring with glazed eyes at the handle just to my left. I can do this.

Taking a deep breath, I heave myself up off the ground and before I have time to think, determinedly twist the handle and wait for the click before shutting my eyes and shoving the heavy door open.

There is silence in there, except for the teeny tiny little voice of Beanie still coming through my mobile. I can’t stand that he is also here in a place that I believe belongs to just my god and I…so I simply hang up. He’ll understand. He always does. Thought to be on the safe side, I had better go wave at him from the window.

Keeping my eyes firmly ahead and not looking in the direction of the kitchen or the couch, I make my way over to the huge overhanging balcony and gaze down. That stupid Beanie still ranting on the phone to ‘me’, tapping his foot impatiently while leaning back against his car. What did I ever do to deserve a best friend like him? I was probably some kind of serial killer in a past life, and this is the universe’s idea of vengeance.

Sighing heavily, I turn to finally look over my empty apartment.

Empty is a good word to describe what I see. As is dark. I must have been standing outside the door for quite a while…no wonder Beanie was so concerned.

I hadn’t turned on any lights, and I think I like it this way. Not dark enough yet that I can’t see anything, but not so bright that everything is clear. Obscure. Hazy. Foggy. Out of focus.

Yes, that’s about right.

I feel so restless in this place that is supposed to be my home and uncomfortable. Standing around feeling out of place in the living room, I feel like I don’t belong here. I should call my realtor, Miranda and ask for the house search to start again – this place has once again lost its ‘aura’ and ‘feel’ now that my soul has been torn into two.

The tears are prickling at me and I gulp large mouthfuls of air to try and delay the inevitable. I can be stronger, if only for a few minutes. But the thought that this place will always be silent…no happy laughter, no blaring of Disney cartoons, no clinking of wine glasses…and no more music.

There will no longer be beautiful, inspiring music drifting up from downstairs anymore. And that thought disturbs me more than I care to admit. Not only will I be losing my life and love…he is taking my passion and art with him. I am doomed to painting bleak and obsolete pieces people will look at and shake their heads…there is nothing left of me.

Standing there in the dark with my head hanging down…it strikes me how odd it is that in this position, tears drip straight to the floor. I stare blankly at the round little spots they leave on the floor and blink, only to see more spots. Well at least this way, they won’t leave track marks on my cheeks, and there will be no evidence that I am…beginning to lose hope, beginning to understand that he’s not going to call me. And probably never planned to, since I tried contacting the hotel he told me he was staying at…only to discover no such establishment exists.

Why would he lie to me…whathe the trying to prove? What does it all mean?

I know I promised Beanie to eat something, but I am in no mood to cook, nor do anything for that matter. It hurts just being here again, and I wish there were someone else with me, if only to provide inane conversation. But I had to come back here alone, had to get on with this stage of ‘moving on’, otherwise I would forever be relying on Beanie for support. I need to stand on my own two feet again. But how I wish it weren’t this hard.

I walk slowly past the couch, letting my fingers brush along the armrest, giving a watery chuckle when I think back to the first time Orlando came over, when I had to hastily remove all the cushions stained with evidence of Ryan’s…rapture. My guilt and horror when he told me he smelt something weird, the way he crinkled his nose…the first time we sat together on this couch talking…the time he cuddled into my side and proved his trust in me by baring his soul and history at the price of his own pride…he had been clutching a cushion that time – I recognise it, it’s that one right there on the side.

I clutch it to me now, rubbing my face in it, smearing it with bitter tears, trying desperately to hold onto anything that would bring me one tiny step closer. It doesn’t smell like him, it isn’t soft and sweet…it’s coarse and rubs uncomfortably at my cheek, but I don’t stop. I can’t.

It takes me a while, but the stupid tears do stop, and if I am going to wallow…I am going to do it in my bedroom with all the curtains closed. Just me, the dark and my memories.

But what I see when finally pushing open the bedroom doors makes me stop dead in my tracks and it feels as if someone has gripped my heart in their hand and just squeezed it. Painfully hard.

Arranged carefully on my pillow is an odd combination of items and I take a hesitant step forward, one hand outstretched, afraid that if I move too close, this oasis will disappear before I have drunk my fill.

My hand is trembling as I reach out and gently run my finger along a bouquet of slightly wilted roses, tied loosely with a ribbon. They are four of them, and all different coloured...while it should make for an ugly and jumbled cluster; I see only the beauty in its unconventionality.

There is also a handsome albeit rather portly mug tipped artfully on its side beside a yellow trucker cap I remember Orlando wearing, once upon a time. But what catches my eye is the stack of paper all of these items are tenderly placed on.

A dozen or seaveeaves of hand-written piano music, bound at the corner with a bright red ribbon.

I pull it out to look closer, and a cassette tape slides out from the middle of the stack and lands with a bounce onto the bed. It is simply labelled, “To the One Who Calls Me Muffin”.

Do you expect me to immediately listen to it? Or to skim the music sheets and hum a few bars? How about to run out and fill a vase with water for the already wilting flowers?

No. Before I do anything, I take a moment to sit there in the silence beside these priceless treasures and simply savour the mood…the anticipation…savour the gifts my god has so carefully prepared for me…savour his thoughtfulness and dare I say it, bask in this last act of his love for me.

I shiver subconsciously for a moment, letting my emotions run freely through me before I get up to retrieve my battered old tape player. There is a state of the art hi-fi system on my bookshelf (courtesy of mazy azy friend Beanie) and it can play tape, blaring it out on loudspeakers…but for an inexplicable reason, I want to use my headphones and have the player in my hand so I can skip back and forth all I want. I don’t want what my prince has to say broadcasted to the entire room even if there is no onse tse to hear it. It is meant for me…and I can pretend he is whispering his last words to me into my ear and not over a machine…that he isn’t miles away and leaving me here, alone.

It is hard slotting the tape into the device, my hands are shaking so hard and my eyes are blurring, but I succeed in the end. Preparing myself mentally for whatever my prince has to say to me, I lean back on my pillows and allow my eyes to drift shut before silently pushing down the button for ‘play’.

An awkward silence as I hold my breath, and then the melodic tenor of his voice is there, gently soothing my battered heart.

‘Viggo…hi. I…well, I am going…crap… I…let me t agt again. Viggo, hi.’

There is a heavy sigh and I smile despite myself. He’s never been very good with words when he’s nervous.

‘I don’t know when you’re getting this…but I am leaving it on your bed so you’ll get this when you get this. I mean, when you get to your bed. Umm…right.’

There is silence, then he’s suddenly talking again, faster.

‘I am so sorry, Viggo…I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn’t know I had to leave you so soon after finding you. If I had known…I don’t think I would haveroacroached you. It hurts so much leaving you here…’

I don’t agree. Even if it hurt much worse than this, I would still have borne it for the month and a half of heaven I spent with my angel. It would have been worth it. Anything would have been worth it.

‘I miss you so much and I haven’t even left yet…I wonder if you miss me too. There are so many things to say, and at the same time, words feel so unnecessary. We didn’t need them…you knew what I was thinking when you looked at me – I could see it in your eyes…

‘I am crying already and I’ve barely even started…but you should be used to it by now, my crying that is. You bring out this side of me…a side I didn’t know I had. You make me feel young and safe and that if I share my problem, you have the ability to make it all better. It’s okay to cry in front of you… You make me feel pure…and innocent in a way. Innocent, the way I was before…before high school and before things went…wrong.’

I know what he is trying to say and I bite on my lip to try and hold back a sob. I can feel his pain.

‘Well, anyway, less about me and more about you.’

He’s trying to sound cheerful, and it only makes things worse, since I know how he sounds when he is truly happy, and it does not sound like this. Not even close.

‘I got you flowers! Have you ever received flowers before? Being the gorgeous man you are, of course you have. So I had to be slightly more creative so I’d stand out from the rest.’

Orlando…you don’t even know how special you are and how no one could even compare. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me. I don’t deserve it.

‘They look quite ugly grouped together like that, right? Well, before you reject them for jarring your sensitive artist senses, let me explain. There are four there…and they represent the things you have given me, and the unique feelings I have experienced because of you. There is a pink rose for admiration…how I admire you for your gentleness, your compassion…your ability to paint such amazing images and creations, for your way with Jack and Lily-Rose, for the man you are.

‘There is a yellow rose – you know that’s my favourite colour, right? – for the friendship you have so unconditionally offered me. I don’t think you realise how selfless you are, Viggo…you were always my friend when I needed one and I was first in all you did. Maybe you didn’t notice, but I tried hard to do the same for you…but there are so many complications, especially with Eric and…’

I can hear a shuddering breath being taken, and in my mind, I can see him steeling himself to carry on and not break down. It’s torture hearing him put on a brave front for me, particularly because I can’t reach over and relieve his distress. It’s not surprising that he tries to change the subject back to safer ground.

‘Now…the next one is a little different - innocence and purity…two things I didn’t know I could still feel. I feel…clean when I am with you…you make me feel as I did when I was young – I was capable of conquering the world, and everyone in it loved me. Pure and fragile…like a white rose.’

There is silence at this point where I can hear quiet sniffing. It must be bringing up bad memories for him. My heart clenches painfully even as I bring the white rose closer to my face. It diverts a tear from its path down my cheek and stains a delicate petal. Innocence, tainted by the fruits of sadness.

‘La-lastly…there’s the red rose. I don’t think I need to explain this one, Viggo. I am no good with words, you’ve seen me stumbling. But I wanted you to know how I feel. Even if it’s not from me in person.’

Though he’s not here, I nod my head slowly in silent acknowledgement, letting the head of the dark red rose tap me gently on the nose. It still smells sweet even nearing its death.

“I know, Orlando…I know.”

‘They’re tied together…you brought all the pieces of me together. And I can’t even begin to thank you.’

Does he not understand? I don’t want his thanks! I don’t want his admiration or his gratitude…I just want him. Him and his love.

He is silent, but then suddenly speaks up again, and it’s so Orlando to once again leap onto another subject in another tone.

‘Are you surprised to see a mug? I asked you once…if you would give me your teddy mug so that every time I used it, I would think of you. I am sorry I didn’t ask first…but I took it. I was afraid you’d say no to me, I know it’s your favourite. But…it’s with me now, and it’s in my lap…’

I can hear some rustling around, and his voice sounds far away, but then gets louder again as he moves the microphone closer to his mouth.

‘…right here. I was so stupid. I was looking at it trying to find where you bought it, or what company so I could find you a matching one, but when I searched its base for clues, I finally realised that it can’t be bought in stores.’
‘I did the best I could though I haven’t sculpted or done anything related to pottery in years. I made this – ’

I stop listening for a second lif lift the chubby mug in astonishment. He made this? It’s amazing…

Dark navy blue with deep red lining, with a fat handle that extends unusually far away from the body of the mug.

‘I remember you complaining once, that mugs were made for people with small hands…and that you had larger hands than most, and found it hard to get your fingers round the handle without burning your knuckles. So…I made a special big ‘Viggo’ version. Is this big enough for you now? I tried to measure from how large your hand felt when you held mine…’

I can’t believe he actually recalled that comment I had made, only once in passing to make him laugh. The mug is a good size when I cup it in my hands and it fits me perfectly as I test its weight, holding it up by the handle.

“It fits just right…thank you,” I whisper to the silent room.

‘I’ve given you my favourite cap…the one you always toss off my head when I wear it.’

Though I can’t see it, I can practically feel his grin. It’s true, I’ve always hated how he felt he needed to hide from the world.

‘I…don’t think I need it anymore, thanks to you. I am not so self-conscious anymore when I go out and people stare at me…well, I am not when I am with you. Simply because if they’re staring, it’s not at me, but the gorgeous older malkialking beside me!’

This time, I really am hearing a genuine laugh, warming my heart like butter, and though it’s a small one, I can feel the smile spread across my face.

‘I still don’t believe you when you go all poetic about my beauty…’

He’s put an emphasis on the last word and I can imagine him screwing his nose up in the adorable way he does, mocking me.

‘…but I am starting to believe it’s okay to accept that I am not ugly…and that people at got going to treat me badly because of it. You’ve done for me what Eric has tried unsuccessfully to do for years. Thank you, Viggo…you’ve made me, more…me, if that makes sense. I am okay being me now.’

I am happy he’s discovered that, but he’s such an intelligent young man, he would have ended on that conclusion with or without my help.

‘Umm…lastly. I created something for you. I know my music inspires you for some reason…I don’t understand it, but you’ve proven it before. I hate that you have never heard me play in person – it has always been through your floor, or listening to me play children’s songs with Jack and Lily-Rose. The floor boards can’t be good for conducting sound – it must be all muffled and so quiet. But here…I didn’t want you to lose your art again after I left. The rest of this tape is to try and give you your inspiration back…I’ve composed a little melody piece for you…It’s nothing much, but I hope you’ll like it.’

Astonished is the first emotion I feel. I am utterly floored by how much thought, effort and time he has put into his leaving gift for me. He only had about a week to get this all done and he managed it flawlessly, all while spending every other second he could in my presence as I couldn’t bear to let him go. It makes me feel terrible as a boyfriend though…all I did was whine and beg him not to leave – it hadn’t even occurred to me to give him something to take away in memory of me too. But perhaps that was because I hadn’t wanted what he had, I mean have, to be only a memory.

‘But before I play it…there’s a little something I have to admit, Viggo. And I am going to say it now, though you’re not here and I am sitting here alone. I love you. Though you’ve never said it back, I can see it in the way you look at me…thank you for loving me back.’

He heaves a deep breath and there is a silence that goes on for so long that I hurriedly pick up the tape player to check if it’s still running when he carries on.

‘I am sorry. But I am the kind of useless, dependent person who needs a lot of comfort and reassurance…I need someone to physically be there for me. Just listening to your voice on the phone from time to time, imagining your smile, or the smell of the pain in your apartment…the intense look on your face when I am speaking, even if it’s only me rambling on…the way you wrinkle your brow and frown when doing your art…how you always dote on the kids…the funny way you try to hold in your laughter and it comes out as a snort…or how you still have no idea what the number code to the building is, and always have to buzz in…the amazing way you know an appropriate and touching quote for every occasion and sprout them off for no reason, including that infamous Oscar Wilde one…how you tilt your head to one side when I am trying to tell a joke you don’t understand…the warmth of your body when I cuddle up to watch movies…how you always know what I need and when I need it…

‘Eric was right, and I hate to do this, but it’s probably for the best. This way, you can move on without having an immature, weepy child clinging onto you, even from miles away. I am so sorry, Viggo…but we both know you deserve much better than what you had with me…so…’

There’s really no need for him to carry on, since I already have a pretty good idea of what he’s about to say, but I close my eyes, wipe away the tears and bear it like a man.

‘I guess this is my pathetic, weakling way of saying…it’s over now…thank you…good bye.’

Silence.

Utter silence.

Both on the tape and in my heart.

And though a rich deep bass of Orlando’s piano music begins to softly drone in the background...I don’t hear it.

There is only one blurred phrase reverberating through my mind.

…it’s-over-now-thank-you-good-bye…

...

Well? What do you think? And I am really really sensitive about this chapter, so please please...don't write mean things, though I am always open to constructive criticism.

Okay. I get that he is still whiny and melodramatic. I found that hard to edit because...based on his artist personality and his MASSIVE soft spot for Orli...I couldn't have seen him any other way.

BUT rest assured. I have spent the past two days ignoring this fic and have now found a...compromise for myself. I can't undo the crap I've written earlier...but I am going to improve the rest of this. I don't want to see it all go down the drain either. HE'S A VIGGO HEAR HIM ROAR! No longer a whiner, he's going to move on without that damned Orlando who ran away at the first sign of trouble.

So...don't judge too harshly based on this chapter...please?
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Flying With Eagles