This fic was born in Paris Montparnasse station, during a long day of waiting. It was at the height of July, but in spite of that, it was cloudy and absurdly cold. I moved the story to September (at least ideally) and I made some other changes (theoretically, there aren't any trains from Montparnasse to England, ehm). I reported the sensations felt that day almost identically, though. Above all else the idea of never-ending wait, of time that doesn't flow and it's frozen, as if it's imprisoned in another dimension...

I didn't think I'd write another ViggOrli, instead... well, never say never ;) this story could be read as a simple real person, not necessarily slash. All the interpretations and the choices about points of view are left to the readers ;P at the beginning, it was supposed to be some kind of drabble, really short, but no matter how hard I try, if there's something I don't have it's the gift of summary...

 

Obviously I have no idea if Viggo and Orlando have ever been to Paris yada yada yada… but I tried to base the fic on data I got from the actors’ biographies (in 1995, when he was 18, Orlando *should* have really won a scholarship for the British American Drama Academy, and so on) and from some interviews.

A huge thanks to Tao and Celebel who illuminated me on the origin of the name Orlando :D and for every other mistake I missed, I apologise. Particularly in regard to Maurice Maeterlink: Viggo’s explanation on his collection of poems “Serres Chaudes” is based on my elaboration of Ruggero Jacobbi’s preface present in the volume dedicated to the poet in the “Collezione Premi Nobel”, 1967, Arnoldo Mondadori Editore. I’m not a literature student, so I apologise for each and every I might have said…

 

Last (more or less) useless chat:

-         I don’t know why, but in my fics there’s always some kind of atmospheric phenomenon, one way or the other… above all rain :P but I don’t do it on purpose, I swear! I got half an idea to write a trilogy about rain, composed by Arizona Rain, this fic and a third story, lol (the “wet trilogy” sounds really bad, yeah?)

-         To poor Stuart Townsend, who was chosen at the beginning to play Aragorn, I apologise profusely! Actually, I don’t know if he’s nice or not, but I needed him to be a little loathsome in order to make Dom’s dialogue and the last part work… and while I’m at it, I apologise to Christopher Lee as well!!

 

And in the end, 

this fic is for Ewyn, because she’s my favourite fangirl… ;)

Leia

 

~

 

Paris, fall 1995

 

The rain was falling heavily. The sliding doors of the exit kept opening and closing with a hiss, put into motion by the photoelectric cell he was standing in front of. Gusts of cold air were blowing against him at regular intervals, but even if under the cotton T-shirt he was shivering, he remained still for a long time.

He didn’t look peaceful, but the shadow of a slight smile appeared more than once on the young and beardless face. Melancholy, or maybe not. The grey light coming in through the opaque windows flooded his hazel eyes, gentle, framed by long dark eyelashes. They were looking far.

When he finally moved, it was only because a couple bumped into him. He picked up a “pardon” murmured in a bored voice and when he lowered his gaze he caught the explicit look of appreciation a nice blond girl threw his way. Her partner, a man at least ten years older than her, squeezed her tight to him. He talked to her quickly in French, irritated, then he dragged her brusquely under the rain. A big red umbrella opened on their heads, and they disappeared in an instant.

The doors slid shut once again. Staring at them, he sighed, deeply breathing in the last gust of biting air. He moved his gaze to the suitcases beside him, to the floor where the dust kept running, then to his watch. The hands were signalling 20;45. He doubted he could find a hotel room roaming around Paris at that hour, and anyway he doubted it was worth the effort.

He turned around. The many cancelled trains had created a considerable confusion in Montarnasse Station. Hundreds of travellers were in his same condition. For all of them there was a long night ahead, and every waiting room – as he had already seen snooping around the different levels – was crammed with people and luggage. He had given up on finding an empty seat a long time before, trying to settle himself down in a corner on the floor, instead. Actually, in spite of the cold seeping from the entrance, he didn’t want to move. He wanted to be able to watch the rain from behind the glasses, or listen to it, at least. It reminded him of home.

Absurdly, though, is someone had asked him, he couldn’t say if he missed it more or was more afraid of it. Because for the first time in his life, he just knew it, the adrenaline wouldn’t be rushing through his veins for a simple 2000 feet-jump from an helicopter. This time it would be different, completely different.

 

No, it wasn’t a dream. Somebody was talking to him. In English. He opened his eyes.

“… it down here?”.

A tall shape, in front of him, against the faint light of the neon.

“Ex…”. His voice refused to work. He cleared his throat. “… excuse me?”.

The other one seemed to lean over a bit.

“I was right, then. You’re not French. Do you mind if I sit here? I didn’t want to disturb you, but this looks like the only place near the front doors where I can keep an eye on the departure boarding table. And where the janitors don’t complain, if we’re sitting on the floor”.

The boy tried to sit up straighter. He was dazed from having just woken up, and his voice didn’t seem to work properly yet. His throat, actually, was terribly sore. Maybe lying on the floor without even putting on a sweatshirt hadn’t been a great idea.

“Oh… uh, sure. Take a seat”, he said with difficulty, extending an arm and rubbing his eyes with the other hand. “Sorry… I’m sorry, but it sounds like it’s going to be a while before I’m back to my normal voice”.

The stranger laughed a little. Despite the unusual hoarse timbre of his voice, he looked like he was bursting with health, unlike him. The boy looked at him carefully while he was sitting down, first lowering himself on his knees to throw the duffel bag he had slung over one shoulder against the wall. And while he was following those movements, his gaze landed on the peculiar profile of the traveller, with marked and surprisingly elegant features, but above all with big, clear eyes surrounded by a few light expression wrinkles. He must have been around forty years old, and he was without a doubt an handsome man.

“You should have worn something warmer. I think it’ll be freezing here tonight”, the man went on, throwing a glance at the boy’s T-shirt and zipping up his sweatshirt.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll take something from the bag now”, the other one answered, blinking to chase away the blurry veil that despite everything was still in front of him. “When I sit here, I started watching the rain falling down, and I fell aslee…”.

He ended the sentence in a very faint voice. The man’s eyes had captured his, magnetic, and it was like they were looking through him. He had never seen a gaze like that. Usually he didn’t feel embarrassed if someone started staring at him with insistence, but this time… he couldn’t explain. It felt like suddenly being unable to stay among people. Without defences, certainties, clever subjects to suggest. Like in the worst teenagers’ nightmares.

“I like rain as well”. The traveller leaned back against the duffel bag and he didn’t seem to take notice of his awkwardness. “I find it… inspiring”.

With the boy’s relief, the man turned around for a second in order to settle some kind of case next to him. There were also two big leather cases.

“Are those cameras?”, the boy asked looking at them, suddenly curious. “Are you a photographer? An artist?”.

The other one turned back to him, and didn’t say anything for a second. Then his lips stretched in a big smile. It was gentle, completely at harmony with the clear irises.

“Artist… mmh. Maybe I could call myself that, and maybe I couldn’t”, he commented in an almost low voice. “And yes, those are cameras. I’m wandering around France looking for interesting subjects. Tomorrow morning I’m leaving for the South”. He laughed a little. “To be honest, I can’t stay still too long in the same place”.

He rested an elbow on the bent knee, extending his right arm. He was sporting the same reassuring smile he had before.

“I’m Viggo. Sorry, I should have introduced myself right away”.

The dark-haired boy instinctively answered the smile with one of his own. The awkwardness had completely disappeared by now. He squeezed the man’s slender fingers, feeling them rough but firm around his own, and thought that Viggo was a rather odd name. But it didn’t say that out loud.

“Don’t worry, I should have done the same. I’m Orlando”.

“Orlando? Like the protagonist in that Italian epic poem?”.

The boy chuckled. Actually it couldn’t be said that his own name was ‘common’ either. He often tended to forget that. When he looked at the half amused, half surprised faces of the people shaking his hand for the first time, it always took him a few seconds to understand the reason. But maybe it’s the same for everyone, he told himself. Your name becomes part of yourself, and no matter how odd it is, there’s always the feeling that, in the end, that’s the only way you could have been called…

“Yeah, even if… well, it has nothing to do with literature. Loads of people think that, though. Actually I was named after Orlando Gibbons, a 17^th century English composer. You see, my mother adored him”.

Viggo tilted his head, really struck by that. He spoke again with that strange tone, low and warm.

“It’s a beautiful name. Really… a good name”.

Orlando’s smile suddenly faded. It wasn’t the remark he was expecting. And he wasn’t used to having to look away like that, almost awkwardly, while a brand new warmth stained his cheeks. And then… he embarrassed for a simple compliment made by a man?

He turned toward his bag muttering a “thanks”, determined to focus on looking for the sweater. He was really feeling cold now. Or better, he really felt the need to cover himself. With something, anything. A small shield against Viggo’s clear sky coloured eyes, which he could feel staring at his nape. He was terribly temped to ask him something more about his name, but the man anticipated him.

“Mine must sound pretty odd to a Brit as well”.

Orlando heard a rustle. Viggo must have leaned back against the wall.

“Well… yeah, a little. It’s… peculiar”.

“Fact is I’m Dane. Half. My mother is American, instead”.

“Ah”.

Sadly, the sweater appeared too soon. The boy was forced to turned around.

“I love this part of Europe”, the other started again. “Countries like France, Spain, Italy… they have such an history-filled past. There’s so much to see. Here you breathe nostalgic and decadent air that doesn’t exist in the States. Rain isn’t as beautiful in New York”.

At the man’s last sentence, Orlando couldn’t help but raise his head. He saw him close his eyes and take a deep breath while he stretched a leg on the grey floor of the station. The man bent his other leg creasing the jeans fabric between thigh and calf, the nice and slender hand resting on a knee. He had broad, solid shoulders, though. And a profile that, unexplainably, was impossible not to stare at.

“Rain is beautiful in England, too. Most British say they hate it, but I love it”.

An instant went by before the young man recognised his voice.

“This one reminds me of it. Perhaps I want it to remind me of it”.

Viggo’s gaze moved away from the stained-glasses, landing back on Orlando’s liquid pools. Those eyes were now lost in the cloudy sky of Paris.

“Are you going back home?”,  the man asked him with a half smile.

He gathered his knees to his chest. He lifted a corner of his mouth, leaning back until he felt the cold plaster against his shoulder blades.

“Yes… I mean, no. I’m from Canterbury, but I’ve been living in London for two years. That’s home for me”.

“I see. Then there’s something important for you there”. The man paused for a second. “A…girl?”.

Orlando threw him a glance, and laughed with him.

“No… no. Even if there are some interesting girls. Actually, there are plenty. Too many, sometimes. Sometimes… well, they can be confusing”.

The stained-glasses captured his attention once again. They were a little dirty, opaque, in some places covered in scratches caused by years of bad weather. But he liked them for that reason, too. They had looked out at the Parisian sky for so much time and they would do it in the future. With sun, rain, and snow as well. They would stay there. And every new scratch would turn into another memory, another fleeting moment captured forever. In some way.

“A dream”. He kept listening to his voice vibrate in the air, without understanding exactly why he was telling these things to a stranger. Why he was confiding in that weird American of Nordic origins, who looked more like a romantic explorer from another time landed on the earth in the wrong century.

“It’s a dream, what’s waiting for me in London. I’ve been chasing it for a long time. And tomorrow… well, I could make it. I could captured it. The first step. Yeah, I could make the first step tomorrow”.

Maybe he needed that, to confide in someone. Maybe he desperately needed it. Everything was there, nested in the pit of his stomach, and it tightened, it churned. A knife in the gut would have surely been less bothersome.

“I’ve been studying to become an actor for the last two years. At the National Youth Theatre in London. Just… only five hours ago I found out I’ve won a scholarship for the British American Drama Academy. And now…”. He chuckled, or at least tried to. In order to lighten the situation, because he hated feeling lost and because he had just only found out. The voice that left his throat, though, didn’t sound really convincing. “… and now here I am, at this station, after leaving the friends I was on holiday with, hurrying to… catch a train I didn’t know I had to catch and… and now I have to wait for a whole night and I don’t know what to think, how to prepare, there’s going to be a preliminary acting audition and I think I have… suddenly forgotten months of theatre and you know, everything is finally within reach after such a long time, I am the happiest bloke in the world, but up until now it has been just a game, it was easier, I had almost lost hope, and this wait is so… so weird, and…”.

He met Viggo’s reassuring gaze, or more likely sought it out. He drew a breath. “… and I think I’m… scared, too. Bloody scared”.

They remained quiet. The man wasn’t smiling but his mouth was bent in an indefinite way. Enigmatic, maybe, was the perfect way to describe it. Orlando wasn’t bothered by it, on the contrary. Nothing about that man seemed to bother him.

Even if sometimes that awkwardness was back, like in that instant, with their eyes still at the same height. Staring at each other.

“And what are you scared of?”.

Above them, muffled metallic voices started listing communications to the travellers in French. By now the station wasn’t as chaotic as before, and time seemed to be slowing, noises were muffled, distant, not very important. Even the regular pitter-patter of rain against the stained-glasses had become background white noise.

Orlando bit the inside of his lip, then he wetted it with his tongue.

“Of doing everything wrong. Of throwing away years, and of… getting tired, of quitting. At the first obstacle. Of not being good enough. Or on the other hand, of becoming like so many other actors. Until I won’t recognise myself anymore. Yeah, I think that’s it. All those things”.

The voices making announcements were done for now and for a handful of moments that kind of echo preceding silence coming back hung in the air. It felt like the loudest noise of the ever-fading ones surrounding them.

“Uhm”. Viggo lowered his gaze, breaking eye-contact with Orlando. He leaned against the bag, and lifting an arm he ran his fingers through his straight chestnut hair. It was a little long, tousled. When he moved his arm back on his thigh, he was facing upward, and his thoughts immobile among the stained-glasses, framed by little rain streams that kept running on them, see-through, fast, and behind that, the black night.

“Under the brimming tide of dreams, o my soul is full of fear, in my heart the moon is clear, deep it lies in the tide of dreams”.

He recited that verse slowly, carefully, as if he were reading words embroidered into the air. The young man opened his mouth and, after crossing his legs, he leaned toward the American. He stared at him, without a word. Only then did the man lose his poker face.

“Maeterlinck. A verse from one of his poems. You reminded me of it”, he murmured. He was speaking with sift kindness, discreetly, in pleasant contrast to the cold and impersonal tones of the station, with the rusty metal of the grates holding the stained-glasses, with the air currents occasionally brushing them. “His poems were often born from the image of a river. A canal, maybe, where he sat in front of, and waited. And that wait is always transfigured in other images. Wideness of horizon, still quietness, secret nervousness, dismay in front of the universe. Fear, but also dream, and exploring thirst”.

He leaned his head back against the wall and tilting it a little he went back to looking at Orlando, pale under the artificial light.

“In opposition to him, you, instead, are sitting in a station, and are waiting for your train to appear. You don’t know where it’ll take you exactly, you fear and love the idea of the journey. You’re attracted to it, but a part of you would want this wait to never end. This night, and the falling rain. A dimension almost out of time. Seems made to shelter dreams, doesn’t it?”.

At that last questioning tone, the boy drew himself up. He had almost started to believe – to hope – that Viggo would never stop talking. About poetry, about that river, about him sitting there on the floor contemplating dreams. He liked the sound of his voice. And what he said wasn’t ordinary. No, it surely wasn’t.

“Yeah. But if I don’t live them through, I will never know how they truly end, I reckon”, he answered. Right then he lowered his eyelids. All of a sudden, he felt numb, sleepy. Maybe it was very late. In order to check the time he only had to look at the station clock, on the departure boarding table above them, but he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t wonder why.

Viggo barely moved his gaze away from the boy, settling it on the scraped off paint behind him.

“You know…”, he said. “I have a friend… who’s an actor. He’s been for a long time. He’s not well-known, but that’s the last thing he cares about. In spite of the long career, and the little money, he never got tired. He says having the chance to express something he believes in is enough for him, it doesn’t matter if it’s through the eyes and ideas of others. It’s always an achievement, a lesson”.

Orlando sat up straighter. Despite the sleepiness he didn’t want to lose a single word. He put his arms around himself, cold, and noticed Viggo was still smiling.

“He doesn’t act only. He loves to change, in order to see things through different perspectives. He always tells me that who gets tired of looking, stops loving. And believe me, if he were here now, I think he’d tell you not to worry about your future. Whether it takes you years to get an important part, or that you get famous all of a sudden”.

The British, after a moment of surprise, chuckled.

“Your friend must have met loads of wannabe actors. But I don’t really think that…”

“It’s not that”. The photographer accompanied those words with a kind movement of his head. “I told you, you remind me of that poet. You fear what you can’t yet see, what lays beyond that river, but at the same time you’re fascinated by it. And it drives you to research. I know, I practically know nothing about you… but one thing I’m sure of. It doesn’t matter how many doubts you’ll have, because in your eyes there’s desire to look. Who knows you, certainly knows that already. It won’t be long before you know that, too, and whoever you’ll meet”.

Viggo ended the sentence with another smile, and a long look. The boy managed to return only the first one, barely stretching his thin lips. This time, though, it wasn’t because he felt awkward. Simply, now, to Orlando the American’s figure turned into a blurry, ever-darkening image. With difficulty, he watched him turn toward the leather cases, his back to him.

He opened his mouth a little.

“Thanks…”.

The lethargy he had fallen into made it impossible, now, to keep his eyes open. He felt sleep nearer and nearer, and inviting. But he didn’t want to fall asleep…

“…tell your friend I hope… I meet him…”.

He wanted to keep talking with Viggo, listen to his voice for a little while more… and then…

“… maybe… on the same set…”.

… then understand why, suddenly, he felt like he had already seen him before that night…

“… one day…”.

… maybe he could ask him tomorrow, maybe…

The man put a new roll of film in the camera. He carefully closed the door on the back of the big black Nixon he was holding and after checking the lens he turned back to the young man.

“I think he would be really happy to…”.

He stopped. Next to him, Orlando was sleeping. Curled up amidst the suitcases, his head was tilted one way, his arms crossed on his chest. His left leg was bent under the right one, that was pulled against his stomach. In that position, he almost looked like a child, fallen into deep sleep in only a few seconds. Viggo felt the pull of his lips, amused and moved at the same time.

“… meet you. But, in a certain way, it’s like he already did…”.

He remained there for an instant and watched him sleep, in thoughtful silence. Then he shook his head and drew the camera near to his own face. He took care to remove the flash not to disturb the sleeping man and took a picture.

The device buzzed briefly. The man lowered it back to his knees, keeping his blue eyes glued to Orlando’s peaceful expression. He half-closed them, gently.

“Don’t worry, young dreamer”, he whispered. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again, sooner or later”.

 

 

Wellington, fall 1999

 

“So he’s here already”.

“Looks that way. Elijah said he saw him talking to PJ”.

“Mh, I’m can’t wait to meet him… oh God, I hope he’s nicer than Stuart”.

“Billy, I don’t think it takes much to be nicer than Stuart”.

“In fact…”.

“What are you talking about, hobbits?”.

Hearing that question, the three guys turned around at the same time, putting forks, napkins and glasses on the table, for the moment. A tall young man, dressed with a nice green tunic, was quickly approaching. He had long blond hair, held back by a green bandanna, and odd pointed ears. When he reached the benches, he smiled widely. The rounder of the three, with thick light brown hair, raised a hand as a hello.

“Hey there, Orli. You joining us?”.

“Thanks, Sean, but I’ve already eaten. And I have to be back in make up in a while. What about you? I bet you’re still mocking poor Townsend, huh, Dom?”.

The young man seated on the far side of the table stared seriously at the newcomer, with a fake offended expression on his face.

“Us? Since when?”.

“No, no… well, more or less”, one of the other friends went on, shrugging his shoulders. He started scratching his pointy chin with great care. “It’s just that finally the new guy is here. You know, the new Aragorn. We were wondering how he is. Have you already seen him, by any chance? I heard Philippa saying they put him with you and Beanie…”.

Orlando Bloom raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Really? They didn’t tell me anything. Anyway, I haven’t been back to the trailer since this morning…”.

“Uhm, maybe he already moved there with all his belongings”. Dominic Monaghan put the last remaining bite of steak into his mouth, then pointed the fork to Orlando’s stomach. “If I were you, my dear elf, I’d run to make sure he doesn’t take up too much space, or that he doesn’t move something around. He has an absurd name, this bloke… I really can’t remember it. But I read somewhere he has done a lot of movies. And you know the demands some stars have… a bit like old Christopher!”.

The others burst out laughing. Orlando only made only a short, weak laugh.

“You’re overreacting. You’ll see, he’ll only be much more serious than we are…”, he commented, looking at the three of them. He darted a glance at the door. “But I’m going to look just the same. Better meet outside the set than on scene. And this way I can warn Beanie, at least”.

 

*

 

The young man entered the trailer. Apparently, the room looked exactly the same, and it was deserted. He walked by Sean Bean’s bed, practically untouched, and arrived to his, still unmade since that morning.

“Maybe I should tidy up a little”, he muttered to himself. He sank his hands in the blankets, recovering socks and shirts imprisoned under the tangle of bed linen. “Just to try not to make a bad impression on the new colleague…”.

He picked up some twenty CD’s from the floor, piling them precariously one on the other. He discovered a pair of jeans abandoned beyond the bathroom wall corner, but turning to go back he had to stop. Under the window, a camp-bed had appeared, and a new mattress. At the foot of the bed, an infinite number of bags. On the nearby coffee table, notes and books. Rectangular objects that looked like canvas. Brush-holders, two wooden jewel cases. Cameras, enclosed in nice dark leather cases.

Orlando swept that long sequence of objects with his gaze, attracted without knowing why by each and every detail. And in the end, he slowly raised his head. All around the mirror that stood a few feet from him, often used by both him and Sean for the first stages of make up, a huge number of pictures had been stuck on with meticulous care. The young man went up to better watch them, curious. Some showed simple landscapes, others details he couldn’t make out, others people, but immortalised in the weirdest angle-shots. Even if he didn’t completely understand them, just like he didn’t understand some peculiar choices about lights, contrasts, colours, he thought they were all beautiful.

Then he started to go back to the entrance, determined to go looking for the new, eccentric guest of the trailer directly on set, but at the last second his attention was captured by a picture on the high right corner of the mirror. He moved closer to the wall, staring at it with a weird feeling of unexplainable familiarity. Then, all of a sudden, a shiver ran down his back. He moved abruptly away from the wall.

The picture was in black and white, and in the middle of it, a boy. He was sleeping, curled up on himself like a cat. He was surrounded by some suitcases, the scenery looked like a station, but aside from that there was nothing else of relevance. A white strip, maybe half a inch wide, framed the picture. And in the bottom space there was a small writing, drawn in black ink: Dreaming Tomorrow.

Orlando covered his mouth with a hand. He opened it, but no sound came out of his throat. A noise, instead, came from behind his shoulders.

“Peter showed me all your photos, and a little footage…”.

The young man pushed a lock of blond hair behind his ear, swallowing. A warm, peaceful voice, with an unusual hoarse tone…

“You know, I immediately knew it was you”.

Silence. For a single, long second.

“Those eyes. No, I couldn’t be wrong…”.

The English actor turned slowly around. A few steps away from the mirror, the new colleague was watching him. The long hair, a little wavy, was a shiny dark chestnut. A slight, unkempt beard graced half of his face, disappearing into his thin moustache. He was wearing Strider’s complete costume, and with only a look Orlando knew that Aragorn could only have been him, and that PJ, this time, had hit the bull’s eye.

It took him only a glance, to know that. And just a few words to realise that since that night, in Paris, nothing had changed. Or maybe everything. Or maybe both.

“So, you crossed that river, in the end”.

Viggo Mortensen tilted his head, leaning it against the wall along with his raised arm. He smiled, and that same image as well seemed to come from an odd, long, rainy night, cold but infinitely more comforting than every summer day. The young man dressed as an elf, instead, worried a lip between his teeth, without managing to stretch his lips in answer. He swallowed the little, unexpected lump in his throat.

“Yeah”, he said, and his eyes laughed along with him. “I crossed it”.

 

THE END

(and then, well, the rest is history…)