viggorli_xmas | Gift fic for zee113

Title: If you were church
Author: to be revealed on January 1st
Written for: zee113

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: No content warnings apply

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.

Summary: When Orlando was young, he did two things of consequence: cut a deal with a saint and fall in love with Viggo. Both of these things have come back to bite him two decades later.

Notes: Title from “Church” by Fall Out Boy

“If you were church

I’d get on my knees”

Corpus Christi Church in Covent Garden was almost empty on Tuesday afternoon. A whisper of voices drifted out from the transept, and one knelt at a pew close to the chancel.

Orlando made his way to the side of the church. The statue of St Genesius glowed faintly in the afternoon gloom, votive candles flickering at the statue’s feet. The plaques commemorating actors who had died in the two world wars hung on each side of the statue.

It hadn’t changed since Orlando had last been there more than twenty years before.

He knelt at the statue.

The irony of this, kneeling in a Catholic church when he was a Buddhist, was not lost on Orlando. But he needed to do this, to follow through on something he’d begun as a very young person.

“St Genesius,” Orlando whispered. “A long time ago, I came to you and asked you to help me. I promised if you did, I would bring you tokens in thanks.

“You’ve helped me so much, so I have kept my promise.”

Orlando opened his messenger bag and took out the bundle of items.

“The first pay cheque I ever earned from acting,” Orlando said. An insignificant amount, for an uncredited bit part. It had hurt, taking the money out of the bank and stashing it away in an envelope, but he’d done it.

“Water from the Chalice Well,” Orlando said. Quick trip to Somerset the week before, fighting traffic all the way. He had filled a plastic bottle with water from the spring, at the foot of Glastonbury Tor.

“And a lock of hair, gifted by the love of my life.” Orlando had kept this, from Miranda, ready for this day.

He lined everything up on the railing and looked up at the statue. “Will you accept these as tokens of thanks for the bounty you have given me?”

The statue of St Genesius stared disapprovingly at Orlando.

Are your tokens given with honesty?

“Yes,” Orlando said. He hadn’t fudged any of them, not even the first paypacket.

I cannot accept your tokens, Child, not until they are given with a true heart.

Orlando looked at the line of gifts and closed his eyes briefly. Then he slowly and resignedly returned them to the messenger bag.

He left the church, ducking away from the priest coming down the aisle to speak to him.

The nearest pub was past the Tescos around the corner. Orlando bought a pint and sat at a table to think. What had he missed?

He hadn’t forgotten the promise he’d made more than twenty years before, the deal he’d made with St Genesius and himself. He’d do this, have a try at a career as an actor. In exchange he’d offered St Genesius three things: his first pay as an actor, water from the Chalice Well at Glastonbury, and a lock of hair gifted by the love of his life.

These had all seemed reasonable things as a young person. Quantifiable. Attainable.

If the pay packet and the Chalice Well water were right, then it must be Miranda’s hair. He’d asked her early in their relationship, when he first knew he wanted to marry her, certain she was the right person. Explained why he’d needed the hair. Got her permission. What had he done wrong?

People were coming into the pub as offices started to close for the day, voices rising around Orlando. He’d need to move soon. Even in a generic franchise pub in London, someone would hassle him eventually.

Orlando drained his pint glass and stood up, collecting his messenger bag.

What the fuck was wrong with the hair?

Orlando stood on the tube, holding onto the pole. He watched the station names for the Piccadilly Line roll through their pattern, letting his mind wander back two decades.

At South Kensington, his subconscious helpfully provided: what if the hair was from the wrong person?

At Gloucester Road, Orlando got the fuck off the tube and out of commuter hell, to walk the rest of the way to his flat.

Forty minutes later, in his flat, Orlando tossed the messenger bag on his couch and slumped down next to it. Time to admit the truth. He’d collected hair from the wrong person.

Orlando didn’t have current contact details for Viggo. He could possibly ask Elijah, or his agent, but both options seemed far too likely to result in difficult questions.

Instead, he emailed Perceval Press, asking for Viggo to contact him.

Twelve hours later, he had a very chatty reply from Henry, asking how he was and promising to make Viggo email back. No difficult questions.

Thirty six hours, and Orlando had an email from Viggo. Warm, friendly, nostalgic. Asking if Orlando wanted to catch up, next time they were both in the same city.

Yeah, Orlando did.

~ ~ ~

From his position in a booth at the back of the tapas bar, Orlando watched Viggo stop and chat with the floor manager, the waitstaff and the bar manager. Handshakes and backslaps for everyone, and a request for his usual at the bar. This was not a random tapas bar in Venice Beach; this was Viggo’s local.

Viggo smiled broadly as he walked up to the booth and Orlando stood up to hug him.

This was good, really good.

“It’s been years,” Viggo said, sliding into the booth and sitting down. “You look great!”

“Too fucking long,” Orlando said. “You too.” Viggo did look good, happy and relaxed.

“Told the bar and the waitstaff to keep the drinks and food flowing,” Viggo said. “Hope that’s okay?”

Orlando nodded. “I didn’t drive here.”

“Me neither. We can both stagger drunkenly out later. You in LA for long?” Viggo asked.

“Several weeks,” Orlando said. “Long enough to adjust to the timezone. Meetings, some test shoots, couple of appearances, yet more meetings. You?”

“Here for a few months, then principal shooting on a new project starts,” Viggo said.

Food and beer arrived, and they caught up on family and friends, until Viggo leaned back in the booth, another empty plate in front of him.

“You said you had something in particular to talk about, in your email.”

“I need to tell you a story and ask a favour,” Orlando said, picking at the label on his beer.

“Sure,” Viggo said. “Any favour, you know I’ll do it.”

Viggo looked softer, somehow, in the subdued lighting of the bar, his focus entirely on Orlando.

Orlando waited while one of the waitstaff brought coffees over and cleared the empty plates from their table.

“It’s going to be hard for me to say some of this, but fuck it, it’s been twenty years,” Orlando said. “A long time ago, when I was just a big kid, I made a promise, a deal, with St Genesius. If I got my acting career, I’d go back later and repay the saint with tokens.”

Viggo’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at Orlando. “Okay.”

“I’m having problems with one of the tokens,” Orlando said. “St Genesius rejected my first attempt. That’s where you come in.”

“You need my help with a gift to a saint?” Viggo said. “I’m in. Are we going on an adventure? Does it involve a pilgrimage?”

“A pilgrimage would have been a better option than this,” Orlando said. “But I was young and stupid when I made this deal and didn’t offer a pilgrimage.”

“What did you offer?” Viggo asked.

Orlando took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He’d really not had enough beers to be doing this yet. “I offered a lock of hair from the love of my life. To be given freely and with an understanding of what it’s being used for.”

Viggo stared at Orlando across the restaurant table and seconds ticked past without him speaking.

“I tried Miranda’s hair,” Orlando said. “Because that’s what I thought. St Genesius was not impressed and sent me away to do better. To be truthful. So here I am, twenty years after everything happened, asking if you’ll gift me a lock of your hair.”

Viggo leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I didn’t know,” he said, then he paused to clear his throat. “I didn’t know it meant that much to you.”

“I didn’t admit it to myself,” Orlando said. “Until some arsehole saint in a church in Covent Garden made me face the fuck up to it. No reason you would know. So, anyway, what we did--what we had--was everything to me. Centre of my universe. Can I please have some hair to appease a saint?”

Viggo smiled, slow and gentle. “I’ll shave my whole fucking head if it will help. Can’t have some cranky Catholic saint coming after you for an unpaid debt.”

“You’re okay with this?” Orlando asked, because in none of the outcomes he’d imagined included the pleased contentment Viggo was radiating at him.

“It was the same for me,” Viggo said. “I should have told you at the time, but I didn’t want to burden you when you were so young.”

“Would have saved me a whole lot of messing around now,” Orlando said, starting to laugh.

Viggo laughed too, the kind of happy, mellow laughter Orlando remembered from so long ago.

Affection for Viggo bubbled up inside Orlando. “I’ve missed you,” Orlando said. “It’s been too long.” He’d loved Viggo so much. Still did.

“Missed you too,” Viggo said, and he reached up and grabbed hold of some hair at the back of his head and pulled.

“No!” Orlando said, as Viggo winced in pain. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Viggo, I’ve got scissors.”

Viggo held out a clump of hair. “Too late.”

“Fucking idiot,” Orlando said, trying not to laugh again. He dug through the pockets of his jeans for the envelope he’d brought with him. “If St Genesius complains about the gross bits on the ends of the hair, I’m blaming you.”

Viggo dropped the hair into the open envelope. “Deal.”

Orlando pulled his phone out as they walked out of the tapas bar, ready to call for a car.

“This was good,” Viggo said. “I’m glad you called.”

Orlando stepped into Viggo’s arms, when he held them out for a hug.

“It wasn’t too weird?” Orlando asked, as Viggo pulled him close.

Viggo’s face was pushed against Orlando’s shoulder, muffling his voice, but Orlando still heard him say, “Hair is nothing. I’d raze the world for you.”

Then he was gone, striding off into the evening, the lights hung in the trees on Main street sparking off his shoulders.

“Wait!” Orlando said, and he took off after Viggo, pushing past people coming out of the liquor store.

Viggo stopped, possibly reluctantly, when Orlando pulled at his elbow.

“Don’t do that,” Orlando said. “Don’t fucking walk away like that.”

“You don’t want me to stay,” Viggo said.

In his memory, Orlando could hear the accusation you never want me to stay.

Orlando touched Viggo’s cheek with his other hand as someone pushed behind him with their. “This is not twenty years ago,” Orlando said gently. “This is not an argument. Talk to me?”

Viggo stepped back, off the footpath and onto the paving outside a 24 hour car wash. They were out of the way of everyone, except possibly the person spray washing their SUV.

“There’s a reason I didn’t stay in touch,” Viggo said. “Guess I thought after all this time, it would be okay, but it’s not.”

Orlando nodded. “I understand. We needed time and it hasn’t been long enough yet.”

“A lifetime’s not going to be long enough for me. If you have any more saint crises, contact me through Perceval Press again? But otherwise, we should say goodbye.”

Orlando rubbed his thumb gently over Viggo’s cheek. “There’s another option.”

Viggo shook his head slightly, just once. “Don’t. Not unless you mean it.”

“Let’s do it,” Orlando said. “Let’s raze the world for each other.”

“Neither of us are single,” Viggo said. “That’s a lot of razing.”

Orlando slid his hand around the back of Viggo’s neck, rested his forehead against Viggo’s, and huffed. “Like I haven’t broken engagements before.”

“You’d do that?” Viggo asked, his hands sliding up Orlando’s arms, settling on his shoulders.

“Would you?” Orlando asked.

They were close enough, arms around each other, faces together, that Orlando suspected he was burning that bridge as they stood. Someone was going to take a photo of them, any moment.

In the background, the spray wax machine at the car wash stopped hissing and the air dryer whooshed.

Viggo’s mouth brushed against his, flicker of lips and whisper of stubble. “For you, yes.”

Orlando pushed Viggo into the pool of deeper shadow provided by the wall beside the car wash. “We doing this?” Orlando asked, his mouth hovering over Viggo’s. He could feel Viggo’s smile.

“Yes, we’re doing this,” Viggo said, and Orlando pressed his mouth against Viggo’s.

Viggo gasped, and Orlando kissed into his mouth, pushing his hips against Viggo, thigh between his legs.

He’d forgotten, impossibly, how incandescent kissing Viggo was. How he couldn’t think or breathe. How he felt like he was losing control.

Viggo broke the kiss, taking a gasping breath in, and said, “Fuck.”

“Uh,” Orlando agreed. “We’re about twenty seconds away from making it onto TMZ. We should should get the fuck out of here.”

“I think twenty seconds is a generous estimate,” Viggo said, loosening his grip on Orlando. “We going to your place or mine?”

“Yours,” Orlando said, stepping back and smoothing his shirt down. “It’s closer. Unless you’ve moved?”

“Same place,” Viggo said. “I walked here. You okay to walk back?”

Orlando nodded. “I can make a phone call or two on the way.”

“Shit,” Viggo said. “Yes.”

Fifty yards down the road, Viggo was leaning against someone’s retaining wall, phone against his ear. Orlando couldn’t hear anything, but Viggo’s body language was tense.

His own call had been mercifully short. His relationship was at its core a pragmatic and real-world agreement based on mutually beneficial outcomes. And having a history as a serial-dumping-wanker was fucking useful occasionally.

He needed to text his manager too, before there were any photos.

Made out with guy in public. Broke up with K he texted. Assume shitshow incoming

Viggo was still on his call when Orlando’s manager messaged back WTAF? My office tomorrow 10.30

OK Orlando sent back, because Viggo was standing up and looking back at Orlando.

“You alright?” Orlando asked, walking up to him.

“That sucked,” Viggo said. “How about you?”

“Difficult,” Orlando said. “But done. The breach of contract is going to sting, but that will be the worst of it.”

Viggo slid his hand into Orlando’s, and they didn’t say much the rest of the way to Viggo’s house.

“I haven’t cleaned up,” Viggo said, unlocking his front door and holding it open for Orlando to walk through.

“You never do,” Orlando said, stepping in and waiting for Viggo to switch lights on.

“Exactly,” Viggo said.

Okay, Viggo possibly hadn’t cleaned up since the last time Orlando had been in his house two decades before. It was an epic jumble of books, art supplies and detritus.

“Still got a bed,” Viggo said, pushing ahead of Orlando and kicking his way through the papers on the floor to the hall

“Like your priorities,” Orlando said, following and unbuttoning his shirt. “Though I’d settle for a solid wall to fuck against, frankly.”

Viggo laughed from the bedroom. “Ambitious of you. My knees are two decades older. Not sure I’m up for that anymore.” He was tossing condoms and lube on the bed, when Orlando walked in.

The enormity of what was happening hit Orlando and he found it hard to breathe. He’d left this behind in New Zealand, not understanding the value of what they’d had then. Decades later, it was coming back and he was not going to let it slip away again.

“Hey?” Viggo asked, sitting down on the bed and pulling his T-shirt over his head. “You okay?”

Orlando toed his shoes off. “Definitely. Do you remember how to do this? I’ve possibly forgotten some of the basics in the past twenty years.”

“It’s still the same as it was then,” Viggo said, grinning at Orlando. “Promise.”

~ ~ ~

Orlando’s phone kept buzzing in the pocket of his jeans, somewhere on the bedroom floor, and he groaned and dug himself out of the bedding. He needed to find it and deal with the messages.

The other half of the bed was still warm and Viggo was humming to himself cheerfully behind the bathroom door, water running. Orlando could do with a coffee and a shower, yeah.

He found his phone. Messages from his manager.

Want to pay to suppress last night’s photos? LMK

Then, Time’s running out

Orlando opened the bathroom door and leaned his head in. Viggo was brushing his teeth, spitting into the basin. “There’re photos. Do we want to make them go away?”

“Are they hot photos?” Viggo asked.

“They’re of you, of course they’re hot,” Orlando said.

Viggo grinned at him, toothpaste and all. “Fuck ‘em.”

Orlando texted back to his manager, No point. Won’t be the last photos of us making out in public

The only reply was 10.30.

Raze the world.

~ ~ ~

Viggo hung back at the entry to Corpus Christi Church in Covent Garden. “Are you sure?” he asked Orlando.

“They let me in without any flames or anything,” Orlando said. “And I’m a card-carrying non-theist. An ordinary shit stirrer like you will be fine.”

“Okay,” Viggo said, sounding dubious, but he followed Orlando in anyway.

Orlando made his way to the statue of St Genesius at the side of the church.

“It’s been a few months, but I’m back,” he said. “Thanks for your excellent advice last time. Spot on.”

You’re welcome, Child

Behind him, Viggo chuckled.

“Don’t mind the peanut gallery,” Orlando said, opening his messenger bag and taking out the tokens. “He’s grateful for your input as well. Anyway, let’s try this again. Here’re my tokens, in thanks for granting my request a long time ago. Chalice Well water. My pay packet, from my first ever acting job. And a lock of hair from the love of my life.”

Orlando lined up the plastic bottle of water, the envelope of money, and the clump of Viggo’s hair folded in paper on the rail in front of the statue.

Saint Genesius beamed down at him beatifically, glowing in the morning sunshine through the stained glass windows.

Orlando made the Anjali Mudra hand gesture in thanks, hands together, thumbs against his heart chakra.

As they walked out, a priest was picking up the tokens from the railing. Orlando stopped and added a wad of folded notes to the donation box. His first pay packet was ridiculously small and did not count as an adequate contribution.

Outside, Viggo said, “St Genesius didn’t seem too scary to me.”

“No voice in your head, huh?” Orlando asked, and Viggo shook his head, looking at Orlando suspiciously.

“Want a drink?” Orlando asked, because changing the subject seemed like a really good idea. “There’s a pub around the corner.”

“It’s London, there’s a pub around every corner,” Viggo said, but he followed Orlando into the pub anyway. “This is not a complaint.”

With a pint and a double of whiskey on the table in front of them, Orlando leaned back in his chair. The pub was mostly empty before lunch on a Thursday and Viggo hadn’t yet complained about the trashy music playing. Life was good.

Viggo took Orlando’s hand, where it rested on the table. Orlando’s ring from New Zealand was back on his hand, after two decades, and Viggo rubbed a thumb over the metal, polishing the surface.

“Relieved?” Viggo asked. “Now the saint is placated?”

Orlando nodded and tightened his hold on Viggo’s hand. “No one needs a grumpy saint rampaging around their life looking to collect.”

“Other people don’t have these problems,” Viggo said, lifting his whiskey with his other hand. “I don’t.”

“Good thing I didn’t offer a pilgrimage after all?” Orlando said, and Viggo nodded.

“Keep on making shitty deals,” Viggo said. “They’re working out for me.”

END