A gift for chaosmanor - part 1/2

[salable-mystic.livejournal.com]

Title: All I want for Christmas
Written by: to be revealed in 2011
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Written for chaosmanor

 

Orlando lifted one eyebrow and surveyed the broadcast booth.  "Man, this just doesn't feel like Christmas."

 

Gilly Starlight, the wee hours of the morning DJ, had taped up a Christmas card sized cardboard Santa Claus on the window between the broadcast booth and the producer's studio.  Santa held a Coca Cola bottle in one hand  -- "We call that product placement, kiddies," Orlando's television producer friend, Artie, liked to say -- a candy cane in the other, and looked dementedly jolly.  Gilly had used a red dry-erase marker to write "Merry Ho-Ho-Ho" on the glass over Santa's head.

 

That was the lone concession to the holidays within the broadcast center of WJFG --Just Feel Good radio--98.7 on your FM dial.

 

That, and the non-stop holiday music the station had been playing since November 24th.

 

Orlando loved the holidays as much as the next man -- probably more than the next man if the next man was Gilly -- but even he was getting tired of the latest Mannheim Steamroller single, which Carson, the program director, had slotted at least once an hour for the last three weeks.

 

"Pathetic," agreed Crystal, one-third of the Crystal, Dave, and Dommie morning drive-time show.  "We should at least have a tree or something."

 

Crystal and Orlando were both in the station to record their portions of WJFG's annual Christmas special, which would air from ten to midnight on Christmas Eve. 

 

Pete, the station manager, believed almost to the point of religious fervor that live radio should, in fact, be live, complete with miscues, flubs, dead air (it's amazing how long five seconds of silence can actually be when your job is to make sure there's never a possibility the listening audience thinks you've gone off the air) and the occasional explanation to the FCC about a word that slipped out when it shouldn't have.  The only reason Pete allowed his DJs to pre-record the Christmas Eve special was so he didn't have to pay his entire on-air staff time and a half to work the night before Christmas.

 

Crystal had gone off shift at eleven; Orlando didn't go on shift until three.  He had no reason to be in the station at eleven-thirty in the morning since he could have recorded his bit a half hour before his show started, but rumor had it that Viggo, the station's eleven at night to three in the morning DJ, might actually be showing up around noon to record his segment. 

 

Technically, Viggo could have done his bit live, but he always had Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off.  No one at the station knew why, at least no one Orlando had asked.  And he had asked everyone he knew, from Crystal, Dave, and Dommie (who was the station's biggest gossip, by far) to Livvie, the pretty brunette assistant who worked directly for Pete.  Orlando enjoyed flirting with Livvie, even though they both knew nothing would come of it.  Orlando, because he wasn't wired that way (hence his interest in Viggo) and Livvie because she had a handsome man of her own at home and a baby on the way.

 

"You should just ask Viggo yourself, sweetie," Livvie had told him.  "Maybe he'll find those gorgeous eyes of yours as hard to say no to as the rest of us do."

 

Orlando had snorted.  Okay, sure, Dommie had made a pass at him the first week Orlando had been promoted to an official on-the-air personality instead of an unpaid intern, but Dommie made passes at everyone, regardless of gender.  Dommie's all-inclusive, randy-boy personality was part of his charm, not to mention what made him so good in the Crystal, Dave, and Dommie three-way. 

 

Everyone else at the station had found it exceedingly easy to say no to Orlando.  He hadn't had a date in ages, sad to say, and might not ever again if he couldn't even strike up a decent conversation with Viggo.  The man was as hard to pin down in conversation as he was gorgeous.

 

In the beginning, Orlando had thought it was just because he'd been an intern.  Orlando had taken a couple of years off from schooling to try his hand at acting.  When that hadn't panned out as he'd hoped, he'd gone back to college.  Consequently, he was a few years older than the station's usual interns, or so Pete had told him at his intake interview. 

 

"I don't allow any monkey business around here," Pete had said.  "No fraternizing with the on-air talent.  You're here to work.  If I think you've decided this is just an easy way to meet a local celebrity, I won't hesitate to end your internship early, and you can explain to your advisor why you need a new placement."

 

Orlando had blinked and arched on eyebrow.  He wasn't flamboyantly gay, but he knew he wasn't the most macho of men either.  He was about to explain to his new boss that not all gay men behaved like the back room boys on shows like Queer as Folk when Pete disarmed him with a fleeting smile.

 

"That's part of my canned speech," Pete had said.  "Most interns the college sends me are starry-eyed coeds barely out of high school who'd like nothing better than to 'hook up,' I believe the term is, with the man behind the voice on the radio.  If I don't give you the same speech, someone will accuse me of gender bias.  Can't have that, now can we?"

 

As an intern, Orlando had worked his tail off doing scutt work.  By the third day he knew the entire staff's Starbuck's orders by heart, not to mention who got what at Krispy Kreme and P. F. Chang's.  But he also went out of his way to ask questions and learn how the station was run. 

 

As central California FM radio stations went, WJFG wasn't a big operation.  It wasn't a subsidiary of some corporation owned by a multi-billion dollar conglomerate.  WJFG was actually named for the station's original owners -- Justin, Frank, and Gordon Willby -- and the Willby family still owned the place.  The station was middle of the road, ratings-wise.  Good enough to stay on the air, but not good enough to attract major talent or the syndication deals that went with them.  True, the DJs like Dommie and Crystal and Dave were minor local celebrities who were in demand for business luncheons and local charity events, but they'd never be recruited by a bigger station.

 

Viggo, on the other hand, had come from a larger station -- a much larger station -- in Los Angeles.  There his blue-eyed, dimple-chinned, chisel-cheeked face had been plastered on billboards and the sides of buses.  He'd done a combination talk/music show featuring interviews with politicians and businessmen alongside poetry readings and live studio performances by indie musicians.  He'd been good at it, too -- Orlando had listened to Viggo's demo tapes one afternoon while he was shelving commercials in the production studio -- and successful, right up until the day Viggo had lost it on air and called a prominent conservative talking head a word that even the DJs on WJFG couldn't say on live radio. 

 

By all accounts, it had been a very subdued Viggo who had taken the vacant midnight shift at WJFG six months later.

 

With hours like that, Orlando had only seen the man in person a few times during his internship, but those few times had been enough to convince Orlando that not only was Viggo the most gorgeous older man Orlando had ever met, he was also gay.  Or at least bi.  And Orlando had a serious thing for older men.

 

So began Orlando's subtle campaign to get Viggo to notice him. Orlando did everything from lining up all of Viggo's commercials in order of air play (Orlando was only required to pull, not organize, the cassettes for the commercials the DJs didn't read live on air) to making sure the break room was stocked with the exact brand of vitamin water Viggo drank during his shift (Orlando had figured that out by beating the janitor to the trash in the mornings).  Whether Viggo noticed these niceties or not, Orlando never knew because every time Orlando saw Viggo around the station and flashed one of his mega-watt smiles at the man, all he got was a nod and a grunt in acknowledgment. 

 

After his internship ended, Orlando told Pete he'd love to come work for the station as a DJ.  Dommie even helped Orlando put together a demo tape.  With his acting experience, Orlando had come up with an on-air personality he thought might appeal to WJFG's audience, something Dommie had described as aging forty-somethings who still thought they listened to the cool music.  Six months later WJFG's afternoon DJ had moved with his new wife to the other side of the country, and Pete called Orlando.

 

That was eight months ago. 

 

Eight months of sitting in a broadcast booth from three in the afternoon to seven in the evening talking into a microphone while staring at a wall full of equipment, playing music that was not the cool music but only a memory of good times two decades (at least) in the past. 

 

Eight months of doing remote broadcasts at used car sales events, trade shows, and at least twice from the driver's seat of a parked school bus as part of the station's campaign to get listeners to donate school supplies for underprivileged kids.

 

Eight months of telling himself that Viggo didn't notice him, would never notice him, and he might as well pound that idea into his thick, if ever-hopeful, skull.

 

"I think he's a burnout," Dommie had said the last time their conversation turned to Viggo.  "Did too many drugs in the '80s and it finally caught up to him.  You're just as well off he doesn't want to talk to you.  You should take the hint and move on to greener pastures."

 

Dommie had waggled his eyebrows at Orlando, a leering smile on his lips.  "And I take it you're the greener pasture," Orlando had said.

 

"I take too many drugs in the here and now, my friend, and I don't mind sharing."  The leer got bigger.  "It could be fun."

 

Orlando didn't want to burst Dommie's bubble, but not everyone was the same person on air as off.  Orlando might flirt his way through his afternoon shift, but it was how he connected with his audience, who were mostly moms picking up their kids from school and tired office workers driving home after a long day at work.  That didn't mean he slept around in real life. 

 

"Have you got your script together for your spot?" Crystal asked, bringing Orlando back to the here and now.  "Or are you just going to wing it?"

 

Crystal, Dave, and Dommie might sound totally ad-lib on their show, but Orlando knew they met every day for two hours before their morning show to hammer out a basic script.  His television producer friend would be impressed by the amount of writing the three DJs did before their show hit the air.  The idea of winging anything was totally foreign to Crystal. 

 

Orlando, on the other hand, did his best work unrehearsed.  He'd learned that lesson the hard way.  Back when he'd been trying to make it as an actor, the more he rehearsed a scene, the staler it got and the worse his performance was.

 

"I go with my strengths, sweetheart," he said. 

 

Crystal stuck her tongue out at him and wished him good luck.  "I've heard your show," she said.  "You're going to need all the luck you can get."

 

Crystal and her script escaped into the production studio before Orlando could get in a good retort.

 

The Christmas Eve show was all about bonding with the audience.  According to Pete, the only people listening to the radio on Christmas Eve were people driving to and from church, to and from family gatherings, and frazzled parents still trying to wrap junior's Christmas presents.  Instead of exploiting the station's listeners by getting people to call in and spill their guts on live radio, like the fictional Dr. Marcia Fieldstone in Sleepless in Seattle, Pete had his DJs share their own most memorable holiday moments with the listeners.

 

Or, in Crystal's case -- and most likely in Dommie's -- share the most poignant memories a decent script meeting could concoct.

 

Crystal was still in the production studio recording her fake memories when Viggo showed up.

 

The production studio was down the hall from the broadcast booth.  Orlando had been lingering in the hallway outside the studio door, watching Crystal emote on cue through the window in the door, while he tried to gather his thoughts about what he wanted to say.  He saw Viggo glance at the cardboard Santa and the red-lettered holiday wishes on the big glass window of the broadcast booth and shake his head.

 

"Hey, Viggo," Orlando said when Viggo got close enough to talk to. 

 

He half-expected Viggo to grunt an acknowledgment, if that, and just keep on walking toward the break room.  Instead, Viggo suprised him by sitting down in the hallway just outside the production studio door.

 

After all this time of basically being ships passing in the night (or early evening; Viggo did occasionally show up early for his shift, and if Orlando was working late, he'd see Viggo holed up in the production studio, earphones on, back to the window in the studio door, speaking earnestly into the mike), Orlando didn't know what to say.

 

"You want to go next?" Orlando finally said.  "She's close to being done."

 

Viggo tilted his head up. He had on a well-worn leather cowboy hat.  His gaze was guarded, his blue eyes faded and tired.  Orlando wondered if the man had slept since he got off shift at three.

 

"No, I can wait."  Viggo pulled a small notebook out of the pocket of his nondescript jacket.  "I've got some work I can do."

 

He bent his head back down.  The hat cut off any further possibility of conversation.

 

It was the most words Orlando had ever heard Viggo say, but it was still the verbal equivalent of a grunt.

 

"You are the most frustrating man," Orlando blurted out.  He plopped down on the floor so that he was sitting directly across from Viggo.  "I've been trying to make friends with you from the moment I saw you, and--" Orlando stopped, so frustrated that he couldn't find the right words. 

 

"Why?" Viggo asked.

 

Orlando blinked.  "Why what?"

"Why have you been trying to make friends with me from the moment you saw me?"

 

Viggo didn't say it like he was annoyed.  In fact, he sounded genuinely curious.

 

Because you're the hottest man I've ever met?  Because I can't help undressing you in my mind?  Because I want you to look at me as intently while we fuck as you were looking at that notebook?

 

Orlando sighed.  None of those responses would be the best way to answer what seemed like an honest question, but a line of bullshit wouldn't do it either.

 

"Because I'd like to get to know you better, that's all."

 

Orlando knew it was the wrong thing to say the minute it was out of his mouth.  Viggo's expression closed off almost like he was shutting a door.  A door that had only been open a tiny crack to begin with.

 

"Okay, look," Orlando said quickly.  "I admit it.  I think you're hot.  But I also think you're incredibly interesting.  I listen to your show sometimes, and even though you don't talk much, it seems like you have all this knowledge about all sorts of things.  That everything in life interests you, and it's been driving me insane that I can't get you to have any interest in me."

 

Viggo looked at him for so long that Orlando felt his cheeks heat up. 

 

This was embarrassing, and so not how Orlando wanted his first real conversation with Viggo to go.  Dommie had been right.  The guy was just too weird for words.   No wonder he was hiding out in WJFG land.

 

"At least you're honest," Viggo said finally.  "I'd heard you were an actor.  I've known a few.  Not many remember how to be honest with other people."

 

Orlando's hands were cold, and he felt shaky inside.  Nerves.  He recognized the feeling from back when he was auditioning.  He shouldn't be surprised.  He felt like he was auditioning – for the role of Viggo's friend, if not something more.  Only for this gig there wouldn't be any callbacks.

 

Okay, then.  What did he have to lose?

 

"When we're done here, can I buy you a cup of coffee?" Orlando asked.  "I know all the great coffee shops nearby."

 

Viggo almost smiled.  "I bet you do.  Pete's always had his interns make the coffee runs."

 

"I used to wonder who did it between interns.  Livvie?"

 

"Not a chance.  Everyone got their own."

 

"Really? Even the morning guys?"

 

"Livvie doesn't do coffee," Viggo said.  "I think it might even be a clause in her contract."

 

Orlando managed a small smile.  "So is that a yes?  You'll let me buy you coffee?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Yes?"

 

Now Viggo did smile.  It transformed him from the guarded, tired man who'd sat down in the hallway into the man Orlando really did want to be friends with.  Friends, and so much more.

 

"Yes," Viggo said.  "Coffee sounds great."

 

# # #

 

Orlando wrapped up his Christmas Eve show at seven with a Bing Crosby standard.  Not that it was likely to be a white Christmas in WJFG land, but Orlando had always liked the song.  He'd asked Carson, the program director, to slot it for his close, and wonder of wonder, the man actually did.  Amazing for a man who'd nixed Crystal's request to put a tiny artificial Christmas tree in the broadcast booth.

 

Orlando wasn't ready for Viggo to be in the production studio, especially not on Christmas Eve, but there the man was, back to the window in the production studio door, headphones on, speaking into the mike.

 

They'd gone for coffee four times since that afternoon when they'd both sat on the carpet in the hallway waiting for studio time to record their Christmas memories.  Viggo had turned out to be even more fascinating than Orlando imagined.  For one thing, Viggo had traveled to more countries than Orlando had ever thought about doing.  And he hadn't just gone to the tourist hot spots; he'd immersed himself in the cultures he'd visited, learning languages and dialects and customs.  It was clear from the way he talked about his travels that he'd come to care deeply about the places he'd visited.

 

All of that made Orlando wonder exactly what Viggo's portion of the station's Christmas special would be about. Orlando had talked about his darkest days as an actor, about how he'd had to give up his dream, how hard that was, and how, in the end, he'd found another one.  He never asked Viggo what he'd recorded, and Viggo had never volunteered.

 

It didn't really matter.  Orlando planned to listen to the Christmas Eve show and find out.  He didn't have any other plans for the holiday.  Pete had the weekend staff work on Christmas Day, and Orlando wanted to spend a luxurious day not talking to anyone except maybe his cat.

 

Orlando thought about leaving Viggo be.  The man was clearly busy, but then again, Orlando thought they'd gotten to the point where he might be able to interrupt Viggo and not ruin their friendship. 

 

He flipped the switch on the outside of the production studio door, the one that made a light blink on and off over the control panel.  Viggo glanced up at the light, and then turned around to look at Orlando.  He held up a finger -- his index finger, luckily -- the universal sign for "just one minute," and turned back to the board.

 

Orlando leaned against the wall on the other side of the door and watched Viggo finish up.  Orlando knew a little bit about the production side of things.  It had been one of the areas he'd tried to learn during his internship.  But it was obvious Viggo knew far more than Orlando did.  He flipped switches and punched controls like a real pro.  When he was done, he took a disk out of the recorder and slipped it in a case, which went into his pocket along with a paperback book.

 

"I didn't expect to see you here tonight," Orlando said as Viggo came out of the studio.  "I thought you always had Christmas Eve and day off."

 

"Got behind," Viggo said.

 

"You want to grab a cup of coffee?" Orlando asked.  Somewhere there had to be a coffee shop still open at seven-thirty on Christmas Eve.

 

"Can't.  Have somewhere I'm supposed to be, and I'm late."

 

Orlando was surprised at how disappointed he felt.  It wasn't like he'd been expecting to see Viggo until after Christmas, but he still felt like a kid who got his hopes up when he saw a Christmas present just the right size to hold the thing he'd been wanting all year only to rip off the wrapping and find a pair of underwear.

 

Viggo seemed to hesitate.  Orlando wasn't the best at reading Viggo's expressions.  The man could be maddeningly enigmatic when he wanted to be.

 

"You have anything going on tonight?" Viggo asked.

 

"Just going home to my cat."

 

Viggo nodded to himself.  Still with the enigmatic.

 

"Think your cat would be disappointed if you were a couple of hours late?"

 

Did he hear that right?  "Are you asking me out?"

 

"It's not what you think," Viggo said.  "Not like a typical date."

 

The man had actually said "date."  Orlando tried to keep himself from shouting a loud "Yes!" and pumping his fist in the air.  That might actually scare Viggo away.

 

"Is anything typical with you?" Orlando asked instead.

 

Viggo grinned.  "Hardly anything."

 

Case in point -- Viggo's car.  Which was actually a truck, and some kind of classic one at that.  The cab had a bench seat, which would have been cozy if the gear shift hadn't been sticking up out of the floorboard between the driver and passenger side.  Orlando didn't know the make or year.  He'd never been a car person.  Cars got him from one place to the next, needed gas to run, and occasionally needed to be serviced, and that was all he cared about.  Viggo's truck was older than anything Orlando had seen outside of the classic car show he'd done a remote at last summer.

 

"You couldn't drive anything from this century?" Orlando asked after he had to slam the door to get it to shut tight.

 

"Buckle your seatbelt.  I paid extra to have them installed."

 

A lap belt.  "I don't suppose you had airbags installed, too."

 

Viggo's grin this time looked a little demented.  "Live a little, Orlando."

 

"I'd like to.  I hear airbags help with that."

 

"Pussy."

 

Orlando blinked, surprised at the language.  So far, Viggo had been a perfect gentleman on their coffee dates.  In fact, Orlando had been watching his own language around Viggo just to keep from offending the man.

 

"Pussy?  Did you just call me a pussy?"

 

Viggo started up the truck, but when he shifted into reverse, he ground the gears.  "Guess I'm a little nervous," he said with a grimace.  "My language gets worse, and I can't fucking find the gear."  He looked up at Orlando.  "You sure you wouldn't have a better time with your cat?"

 

The fact that Viggo could actually be nervous around him was a revelation for Orlando.  All those times that Viggo had merely grunted at him in passing, had Viggo been nervous then, too?  Orlando considered the fact that Viggo might just be a very shy, introverted man at heart.  Even with all the traveling he'd done, Viggo had always sought to blend in with his surroundings.  If that was the case, it put their coffee dates in a whole new perspective. 

 

"I'm right where I want to be," Orlando said.

 

(Continued in Part 2)