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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: squishypiglet@hotmail.co.uk
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: Artists are Known for Being Quirky

Chapter 8

Not feeling in the mood to be cramped up at home, I had taken a slight detour after the ‘coffee escapade’ to the nearby park and spotted Vanessa with the children again though I did not stop to say hi. I wouldn’t be very good company at this moment in time, and I don’t want to ruin Lily-Rose and Jack’s day as well. Let me wallow alone.

I felt a lot better after the directionless wandering and my muse decided to even pay me a short v. I . I was blessed with a vision filled with dark greens, browns and black. Blessed? I would think cursed. From experience, I know that if this image is not purged from my mind and out onto a canvas, I am not going to be able to create anything else.

There is a new tension now that was not there before as I enter Paradise. My beautiful god lives in the same building with jealous Leopard-man. They must be on the first floor. There is an unusually strong feeling of apprehension and dread – I really don’t want to bump into either of them at this very moment. The idea had not occurred to me until then.

I did stop by the wall where all the mailboxes are located…and I am ashamed to admit that I ran my hand along the mailbox which proudly stated: “Leopard”. That is probably the closest I am going to get within reach of my vision of perfection from now on.

~~~

I feel empty entering the dark and bleak apartment, but I don’t want the white glare of the lights so I just shut the door behind me and lean weakly against it. My legs don’t feel like holding me up so I just slouch down and slowly slide until I am sitting in a heap on the floor.

Time doesn’t have much of a hold on you when you’re in such a mood. I wonder why. I felt an age had passed before I grasped a hold of the handle if only to pull myself up. My poor injured god would probably not have managed that without someone else’s help. Is that why there was a man waiting on him? Did Bana put him up to it? Or was that Leopard jealous and hired someone to follow him? Did he think me dangerous? Who would even hurt my beautiful angel? How did it happen? When?

Questions. So many questions, none of them answered. I want to know the answers so badly…yet I don’t think I’ll be able to sacrifice the time and energy to try and find out. It would mean facing the wrath of the Leopard-man if I dared approach Orlando again. He couldn’t have made it clearer to whom the young god belonged. It certainly wasn’t me. I didn’t deserve him. Perhaps gods ly sly should stay in their own packs. I’ll have to start my own twisted “Viggo-pack”. Maybe I could persuade Henry to join.

~~~

I don’t think it helped that the pianist downstairs was at home today and playing the most sombre tune I had ever heard. It plodded along monotonously and was focused on the lower range, in minor keys. I guess I am not the only one in a foul mood. It’s weird since the past few days, he’d been playing rather upbeat tunes which suited my painting of the dancing girls. Maybe he feels my mood.

Painting didn’t relax me as it normally did. I would paint until I was too drained and exhausted to even think, let alone move. Beanie had to reluctantly admit to me, that my divorce with Exene had been the most productive period artistically that he had ever known me. I don’t know what to think about that. But back then, I had churned out painting after painting, all in a similar distorted lens view. You couldn’t see things, just vague shadows and suggestions in swirling strokes. My excited agent had swept up all of it, titled it “Inner Turmoil, External Expression” (where he comes up with these names, I’ll never know) and it sold like hot cakes. That was the main reason I was able to afford this place.

Hmm…Beanie. Interesting. I think I’ve just found a way to lighten my bleak mood.

I grab my keys and head out.

~~~

It’s over two hours before I come back in again, dragging with me at least five bags of groceries. Yes, after about a week and a half at Paradise, I finally found our nearest convenience store. I am stocked up now. Part one of my masterplan is complete. Now, only to call my oblivious victim.

~~~

The chicken is roasting nicely in the oven when I hear the chime of the door. That would be my victim arriving perfectly on time.

The moment I open the door for him, the questions begin.

“What’s wrong, Viggo? Why the crazed phone call demanding I come over at once? What’s happening? Is something wrong? What’s that burning smell?”

He can smell the burning already? Wow, the chicken is worse off than I thought.

“Beanie! I just had an…epiphany! The greatest idea in the world! I am going to publish a book!”

As I expected, this news is greeted with good cheer. He’s been bugging me about publishing a book of my works for years now.

“You’re finally seeing things clearly, Vig. I knew you would!”

Now the fun begins.

“But…it’s not an art book.”

“No?”

“No…I am thinking of writing a…” I pause for effect, “…cookbook!”

That look on his face is priceless. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so amusing in a long time and he’s stunned silent. I take this chance to drag him towards the kitchen and the burning smell.

me ome on, I’ve made you a sample of my best dish.”

~~~

Beanie is currently trying to choke down a forkful of chicken marinated with chocolate, avocado and carrot sauce. Do you know how hard it is to try and hold back laughter while forcing yourself to eat? The colour of this is…surreal. It could have been my artwork, what with the dark greens and browns I envisioned earlier on today.

This tastes worse than the green milkshake Henry made when he was six. He had beamed proudly at me and presented a green foamy concoction. That look on his face, I couldn’t resist him. Come to think about it, I am sure he mentioned something about peas…? I don’t know where the kid gets it from. Must be his mum.

I manfully swallow another forkful before asking Beanie what he thinks.

“Well…it’s certainly…special.”

“Do you like it?”

“I, of course, love it. But Viggo, I don’t think they’d be a big market for…this kind of…dish. Special refined tastes and all that…you understand…”

I know I am close. So close…just a little push in the right place…

“Everyone will love it! How can you not? It’s a main course with a dessert! They’re together! Chicken with chocolate with carrots! Parents will love it; kids will be eating their vegetables without a fuss since it’s quintessentially a dessert! It’s sweet and salty! It’s going to be the latest thing, I tell you…” That’s right. I am quoting him right back.

SUCCESS. There goes Beanie’s eye tick! I’ve done it. I was right. I do feel better now. It’s a tough job being an agent for an artist – after all, artists are known for being quirky. This is great distraction and I’ve almost entirely forgotten about this morning’s incident. Almost.

~~~

While the disgruntled and tummy sick art agent is doing the dishes, the phone rings. Good, perfect excuse for me to move away from the kitchen and its lingering burning smell. I am laughing as I run to the phone while Beanie is swearing at the oven pan crusted with burnt chocolate.

“Hello, this is Viggo, big V, double g!”

“You’re still doing that, Vig? Heard you’re in London now with a new place. Hope you got a spare room.”

I know that voice. I know it well.

“Oh my god.”

TBC...
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Flying With Eagles