FIC: The Other Trailer 1/3

[lobelia321]

Happy birthday, viva_gloria! With much love from lobelia321



Title: The Other Trailer
Series: This story stands alone but is also a companion fic (of sorts) to A Helping Hand and We Can Do More.
Part: 1/3
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Website: http://www.geocities.com/lobelia321/
Pairing: Viggo Mortensen / Orlando Bloom
Rating: NC-17
Category: Birthday fic.
Summary: Viggo and Orlando share a trailer.
Feedback: Yes, please, I would love feedback! Anything, even if it's only one line, one word!
Content/Warnings: RPS.
Spoilers: Mild TTT. Okay for jenfr, *winks*!
Archive Rights: Beyond the Fellowship. Imagin'd Glories. My niche. Anyone else, just ask.
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen.
Author's Notes: Richard is, of course, Richard Taylor, the lovely president of WETA.
Thanks: Thanks to Selkie, who many months ago wished for an insight into the other trailer. Thanks to ladymoonray, for Viggo-droolpics. Thanks to demelzagirl, for handholding.
Dedication: *Happy, happy birthday, dearest Gloria!* And thank you for all the fun and the chats and the encouragement, the ants and the fb-overdoses and the seriousness about writing! (Not to mention pearl bunnies...) I'm looking forward to loads more of same, *g*. *hugs and kisses*
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Strange and spicy smells come off the trees. Is it their sap? Is it the fungus on their bark? Is it the moss on their roots? I'd like to know. I'd like to explore the smells. I'd like to explore this whole forest. I've never been in such a strange and spicy forest. Such a silent, ancient place. I wish there were more time. But we have only four days in this forest, and I don't even know what it is called. Everyone just calls it Fangorn, and it may as well be. It may as well be a forest of living trees in Middle Earth. And I may as well not be Viggo but Strider, forging ahead through the undergrowth, sniffing out the air for traces of... what?

Perhaps I should have brought a flashlight. Ten-thirty at night is not the ideal time to go exploring an unknown forest. And it is pitch black in here. As soon as the lights and huts of the film encampment are left behind, darkness closes in all around. Not even the tops of the trees are outlined against the sky. There is no moon tonight. There are no stars. The air smells of heavy moisture. Leaves droop onto my shoulders.

Perhaps I should have worn shoes. Although the grass feels delicious under my naked soles. The grass, the crackling twigs, the roundness of rocks, the dry raspiness of lichen on the rocks. I curl my toes around the rocks, I dig them into the earth. Feels good to be out of boots at last.

It's not only pitch black. It's also silent. Only my own footsteps rustle and crack. Only my own blood murmurs in my ears. Perhaps if I stand quite still. If I still my breathing. If I breathe in the silence. Perhaps then the silence will become audible. Perhaps it will start to hum like a tuned harp. Or is that hum the sound of a jet far overhead?

What was that? Something hooted. Are there owls in New Zealand? Or is it some unknown species of hooting marsupial? Let me walk on a bit. If I hold out my hands in front of me, I will avoid unpleasant bumps. Bark, ferns, spiky things trail against my finger tips. Something cottony catches on my face. Keep still! Is that a spider scurrying down my neck? No, only a shiver of my own skin. I'm picking the threads out of my hair. I'm wiping my face. I'm inhaling the sharp moist smell of nocturnal chlorophyll.

Squelch. That was underfoot.

Proof positive. I should have worn shoes. Or brought a flashlight. Shit. And it is. Definitely. Definitely shit. Unknown hooting marsupials' shit.

But it's a healthy smell. A healthy rich smell. Not quite the smell of cows and farms but at least not the smell of Xenons and dimmer boards and caked greasepaint. A natural, untouched smell.

Squish. That was underhand.

And this, too, is natural. This sweet rich pungent smell of... what? I wish I could see. But my hand slimed right into it. Some sort of bark mould or tree sap or bat guano. Do they have bats in New Zealand? Probably not. They don't have placental mammals, do they? Perhaps bat-like monotremes, flitting among the branches, dropping their silent excreta into the night.

What's this wetness?

Rain. Definitely. That's definitely rain. Well, I should be sheltered here, among the trees, under the canopy.

Or not. This is not your ordinary drizzle. This is some sort of antipodean deluge. These are drops of fierce proportions.

But they are clean fresh wet drops. They are the tears of the sky. When I lift my face, they wash over me like soft sheets of satin. They trickle down the sides of my nose. They collect in my eyebrows. They soak into the top of my head.

Perhaps I shouldn't have come out in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. Perhaps it's time to head back. It's going to be another long day tomorrow, and there'll be an early wake-up call.

Just another minute. Another minute won't do any harm. I admit, it's not entirely comfortable standing out here, dripping, with shit all over my foot and goo on my hand. But then, what is the alternative? That tiny, cramped trailer? That pre-fabricated metal box with plastic doorhandles and drapes the colour of puked-on dishcloths? And that infernal smell in there, that smell of disinfectant and musty mattress?

And the trailer-mate. Oh, the trailer-mate.

They're lavishing millions on this movie so why, suddenly, when we're in this miles-from-nowhere location, do they decide to skimp on the accommodation and bundle us off, two to a trailer? How is anybody to work under such conditions? How am I supposed to do my meditation in the mornings? Or read my script in peace? Or gather my energies for the day ahead? Or... or anything! That trailer is so squalid, and so small, and we'll be so on top of one another, there won't even be space for any private jerking off, for fuck's sake!

Perhaps I should beat off right now, out here. Get it over with. Except it's too wet. And yes, my hand's full of stuff, I forgot about that. No good. No good at all. Should have thought of this before. This is no good at all for my physical balance. Or my mental balance. Or any kind of balance.

And of all the people...

If only Sean were here. Or Richard. I wouldn't have minded sharing with Richard. He'll probably fly in tomorrow, check out the ents, climb back in his helicopter and be out of here. Even Harry. Harry I could cope with. But Harry's not here. And John and Ian immediately paired off into one trailer, and the hobbits, of course, grabbed the other one, so that left...

Orlando.

No good. No good at all. He's probably in there right now, spreading his stuff all over the trailer, spreading *himself* all over the trailer. Spreading his mental energy into every nook and cranny, leaving no room for me to breathe. Spinning entire cobwebs of Orlando-Orlando from one end of the trailer to the other so that, when I get back, I'll be caught and trapped and strangled.

But what's the point? It can't be helped. And I really must go back now. I'm soaked. There, that was a sneeze. My feet are chilled. Long hair is not a good thing to have in the rain. I'll just turn round... no, that wasn't the way I came. I'm sure I don't remember that tree stump. Ouch, and it hurt my toe, too. Where the... Nothing. No lights. Perhaps it was in that direction...? Shit. This is starting to feel stupid. If I don't find my way out soon, I'll have to cooee. How ridiculous. What was that? Ow, another tree. I'm not being careful anymore. I'm crashing through the undergrowth like some kind of wild pig. It's really almost a bit...

"Bloody hell!"

"Fuck, what... Ian??"

"Viggo?! Is that you? God, you scared the bejeezus out of me!"

"Yes, sorry." Hell, it *is* Ian. And he's actually got an umbrella up over his head!

"Shit, Vig. You just made me piss all over my trousers. What are you *doing* out here, blundering around in the dark and walking into people?"

"I'm just... What are *you* doing out here?"

"What does it look like? I'm having a piss."

"What?" Shock. "Surely there's a toilet in our trailers?"

"Yes, yes. Look, I don't want to go into it. Actually, yes, I do." He lowers his voice. "It's John. He's got a bit of a problem. He... Well, turns out, he needs to spend quite a bit of time on the loo every evening."

"Oh. Right."

He sighs. "I'm getting a bit too old for this location lark. And he is, too, I think. Still, we must make the best of it. Anyway, shouldn't think you'll be having too many problems with young Orlando!"

"Why does everybody think it's so great to be sharing with Orlando?"

"Who's everybody? Nobody thinks that. Nobody thinks sharing is great -- oh, except for the hobbits, maybe. And Orli's fun... isn't he?"

Now it's my turn to sigh. "Fun. Fun, Ian. Fun is not what I want after a long day's work when all I need is to be left to myself in peace and quiet so I can gather my thoughts."

"Is that why you're out here? Traipsing through the woods in the middle of the night, gathering your thoughts on one of your ridiculous walks?"

"They're not ridiculous."

"Vig," he says and puts a friendly hand on my shoulder. "They *are* ridiculous. But don't mind me. Traipse on ahead, if you must. I'm off to bed. See you in six hours!"

Six hours? Is it that late already? Shit, I'd better hurry back. My trailer -- our trailer -- is just across the clearing from Ian and John's. Hell, I do seem to have walked quite a way. How did I get all the way round here?

The light in my trailer -- our trailer -- is still on. An orange light, a sickening anaemic light. Strings of rain part as I run across the clearing. Puddles splash. I skid on something, some grass, some mud. And there's a rope near the trailer, some sort of cable or other piece of garbage that almost sends me sprawling. No, caught myself just in time. *Bang*, goes my hand on the side of the trailer.

Metal hinges creak. A rectangle of light falls onto the grass.

"Hey, Viggo? Is that you?"

Orlando.

"Yes, yes." I try to sound wet and weary.

"God, Viggo. What were you doing out there all this time?"

I climb up the steps. Mud drips onto the floor. Small, soggy leaves stick to the door where I lean against it.

"What happened to you? You're soaked... and what's that smell?"

"I trod in something."

"Trod?" Orlando bursts out laughing. "You mean, you went walking in the wilds and you trod in some dog turds?"

"It's not dog turds," I say, irritably.

"I think it is," says Orlando, bending down and peering at my bare toes. "It is! That woman from personnel, whatsername, she's got a dog here. She's partially sighted. Don't you remember? Big brown German shepherd."

"It's a hooting marsupials'... Never mind. Is there a shower in here?"

"Yes, yes, man, relax. What's that you've got there?"

And then Orlando does something unexpected. He lifts his hand and he brushes it across my forehead. My eyes fall shut: auto-reflex. His thumb sweeps along my hairline. "Cobwebs or something," his voice says. Then his hand's on my hair. Picking through the strands, holding my hair down with one hand and pulling threads off with the other.

I open my eyes. He stands there, laughing, holding his cobwebbed hands out to me.

"Just," I say, "just wipe them on my pants or something. My jeans are filthy, anyway."

Orlando's hands are warm against the damp denim. He has his palms against my hips and wipes downwards in two long quick strokes. Shit. Mistake. I forgot that I never got that chance to jerk off.

Orlando's still there, not moving away. He's half-naked, what's more. He's wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, tied with a drawstring around his hips, and a necklace. Some sort of silvery, glinting thing, shining against his skin. Men with jewellery. Ridiculous.

"Turn around," he says. And that's ridiculous, too. Yet I do it. I turn. I stare at the grey aluminum door. I read the fire precaution notice. I count the screws used to fasten the notice to the door.

"Leaves and stuff all through your hair," Orlando says. My hair is pulled, my hair is tugged. The down along my nape rises. I feel... what? I just want to have a shower. I don't want to be pawed and patted by Orlando. And yet I hold still. I hold quite still as he combs his fingers through my hair. Leaves rustle. Bits of moss and bark spark to the floor. Above our heads, the rain drums onto the metal roof.

He's still combing my hair, and surely, all the twigs must be combed out by now? He's running his fingers into my hair from below, along the skull and upwards to the crown, and then outwards, pulling strands of hair along, letting them trail over his fingers, letting them settle back against my neck.

I sneeze.

"You're soaked," he says. "Your hair's all matted. You should have a shower." Yes. Right. Shower. Four. Four screws needed to hold that fire notice up. "It's just in there. I've had one already." What? Oh, right. Just in here. He's clicking the door shut behind me.

The bathroom is cramped and smells of dettol. I need to have a session. Yes, I've got to have a dump. The toilet seat is a narrow hard doughnut. Oh, how I hate communal johns! I'll turn on the shower to drown out any sounds. Poor old John. Well, we're all heading that way.

Everything in here is the colour of dead tuna, and everything is plastic. But the water that spurts out of the shower nozzle in fits and starts is hot. Scalding, in fact. I swear and fiddle with the stupid faucet knobs. I also haven't got any soap or shampoo. That's all still in my bag, out in the main space. Orlando's bottles are lined up in a neat little rank on the floor of the shower cubicle. Shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, hair gel, talcum powder, foot powder. Why does he *need* all this stuff? The shampoo is some industrial-strength concoction that reeks of gum drops but it'll have to do. I'll get my organic, genetically unmodified, nettle-and-camomile shampoo in here tomorrow. There's soap as well, soap on a rope, dangling off the mixer faucet. Some people are too organised.

My dick's still semi-hard, and I think briefly about jerking off but then I can't be bothered. I'm too chilled. I'm too tired. I just want to wash my hair and go to bed. I just want to get hot and wet, and then dry and clean. The towel they supply is thin and raspy. There's no bathmat.

The ledge above the washbasin is littered with Orlando's battery-run toothbrush, Orlando's toothpaste, toothpicks, dental floss, shaving cream, shaver, aftershave, spare blades, mouthwash, deodorant, jewellery, watch, scalp brush, nail brush, nail clippers, nail file, headache tablets, travel sickness tablets, painkiller tablets, nasal spray, spare AA-size batteries, thermometer, band aids, condoms - condoms! What does the man want with condoms? And a thermometer! There's a travel toiletry kit hooked onto the back of the door. It has about seventeen compartments. It's empty. He's emptied it all out onto the ledge. There is not one square inch left for any of my things. Not that I *have* many things. Not everyone's such a vain nutcase. Or hypochondriac. Or both.

I sneeze again. Shit. Snot sprays all over the basin.

TBC

Comments

[alliwantisanelf.livejournal.com]

*lol!*

Viggo's just not a happy camper right now, is he? Poor baby. Lost in the woods with shit on his bare foot and goo on his bare hand and no umbrella. Then he runs into Ian taking a piss! hahaha!

Orlando's got enough product to start his own shop!

Looking forward to the next part!

[admirabile.livejournal.com]

I love the list of Orlando's grooming supplies! Too funny! I bet his trailer/hotel room bathroom are pretty close to being like that.