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Fixation by dee
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Viggo's obsessions were going to be the death of Orlando.

Mostly, Viggo was normal. Regular. A little eccentric, perhaps, a lot sexy, definitely, but nothing really out of the ordinary. But then he'd develop a... well, Orlando's mind skittered nervously away from words like 'fetish'. Maybe fixation. Yeah, that was a good totally non-sexual-overtoned word. And these fixations, frankly, were getting to be a bit much. Not that Orlando was one to deny a man his artistic tendencies, but did said man have to artistically tend all over Orlando?

It had started with sound. Not just sound: words. Orlando didn't even want to go into the renaming of the Winnebago. Viggo had been like a squirrel, seizing words that struck his fancy and hiding them away, only to pull them out at odd moments and nibble at them, turn them over like smooth pebbles in his fingers. It could be anything, there didn't seem to be any system. Sometimes obvious, like 'Lothlorien.' Sometimes short, sharp and inexplicable, like 'fork'.

They'd been in make-up when Orlando had heard Viggo say his name, slow and considering.

"Yeah?" He couldn't turn around with a make-up girl hanging off each ear. He expected Viggo to come out with some typically him comment, like how the sky was too blue to capture in words or shapes or even colour. How it was beyond colour. That was the sort of thing he said, just at random.

But there was just silence. Then: "Orrrrrlaaaando." Rolling it around his mouth, over tongue and through teeth. Drawn out and savoured. One of the girls moved, and he could see Viggo in the mirror, head tilted slightly back in his chair, eyes half-lidded and distant. Mouth slightly open, and as he watched the lips moved, shaped: "Orlando", quick and quiet this time.

The make-up girl moved back into his line of sight. "Shut your eyes, Orli. Time to get pretty."

Then there was the touch thing. Just a period when Viggo got even more touchy-feely than usual. He ran his hands over everything. The engraving on Aragorn's sword, the dry, half-dead grass, the smooth concrete of the studio floor, the rough concrete of the walls. The faintly pebbled surface of the catering tables had at least half his attention at meals. He even lay his cheek against it, once, eyes closed, shifting slightly.

Waiting for a scene, for PJ to get the hobbits satisfactorially whatevered, Orlando leant against a convenient tree, squinted out of the shade into the sun. The sky really was amazingly blue in this part of the world. Viggo came around the tree, behind, then beside him, his hand on the trunk of the tree, rasping against the bark.

"Fucking hell, Vig. You scared me."

Viggo smiled at him, that lazy half-smile of his that just seemed to match the quiet slurring of his accent. "Apologies." His gaze passed across Orlando's face, slid down the blond wig. His hand shifted from the treetrunk to Orlando's shoulder. It slid off his shoulder, down his arm, smoothing the costume fabric. Orlando could feel barely the faintest pressure from those fingers. They were taking sensation, not giving it. They ran all the way from his shoulder, down his arm, curved around inside his elbow, to the point where the leather arm braces laced up.

"Rough bark," Viggo noted quietly. "Smooth elf."

Orlando's rejoinder about what sort of adjective applied to humans died in the back of his throat.

"Right!" PJ shouted. "The rest of you, get back in here. Where the fuck's my Fellowship gone?"

It had started Orlando on his own fixation with touch. Well, the potential for it. His personal favourite had been wondering about Aragorn's designer stubble. Whether it'd rasp against the palm. After a certain length, stubble became beard, and it was soft, then. Orlando wanted to feel all the different stages.

But fuck it, he'd gotten over that. He had. He didn't need all this unrequited shit.

Which is why he felt distinctly nervous - fuck that, out and out panicky - when Viggo approached him like a predator, eyes half-lidded, and that half-smile in place.

"Viggo, hey, how're you?" he said, too fast, and the wall was behind his back, nowhere else to run.

He raised his hands, a feeble warding gesture. Viggo completely failed to notice, reached past to place his hand over Orlando's mouth, palm against his lips, fingers gripping lightly, gently up his cheek.

"Sshhh," Viggo hissed quietly, and leaned in.

Orlando couldn't help his reflexive intake of breath. But Viggo wasn't pressing his lips against Orlando's temple. He was close, so close Orlando could feel his breath against his naked scalp as Viggo breathed out, and then inhaled. Long, slow, deep. He leaned further, curved around Orlando against the wall. Orlando felt the faint bump of Viggo's nose against his skin. Towards the back of his head - another slow inhalation - and then shifted, pressed now against the curve of his ear. Viggo's breath in his ear sent goosebumps shivering over Orlando's skin. Viggo's attention slid lower, under the curve of Orlando's jaw. A long, savouring trail down his throat, to the juncture of shoulder and neck.

"Hmm..." Viggo hummed, straightening finally, eyes closed. "You smell like..." Orlando found he was holding his breath, couldn't have said why. "You smell like..." Eyes opened, inches from his. "Orlando. You smell like Orlando."

And like that, he dropped his hand, and was gone.

Orlando let his breath out in an explosive rush. Leaning back against the wall, he let his eyes roll up to the incredibly blue sky.

Fucking hell! Viggo's obsessions were going to be the death of him.