Title: Sex, Beers, And Videogames Author: Jo Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Viggo Mortensen (sort of) Rating: PG13 Summary: Orlando's a little tipsy, and Viggo's a little exasperated. Disclaimer: Nope, never happened. And if you think it did, I suggest you go look up the word "fiction" in the nearest dictionary. Notes: For the Boys Being Boys challenge, because, damn it, this pairing needs to be turned back into men instead of 12 year old girls. *g* "You fucker!" At the shout, Viggo paused, halfway through the kitchen on his way back to the living room. What the… Beeps, whistles, and what sounded suspiciously like an explosion followed, and he shook his head. Someone (one of the hobbits, most likely) had dragged out Henry's video games. "Ha!" This from Orlando. Who sounded more than a little three sheets to the wind. "Take it all, bitch!" Note to self: beer, video games, and Orlando might not be the best mixture in the world. As Viggo finished walking through the kitchen, bare feet making a soft stickstickstick sound on the tile floor, he wondered just how many beers Orlando had had. Clearly it was one beer too many. And whose fault was that? Peering through the doorway, Viggo had his suspicions. Bean sat -- well, sprawled, really -- on the sofa, nudging first Orlando, then Elijah, with his foot. Number one suspect right there, man. Viggo gave him a dark look just seconds before Orlando yelled, "Score!" and collapsed into a heap, laughing so hard his body shook. Viggo knew he should have hidden the damn game better. But, short of shipping it to Timbuktu for the weekend, he'd been unable to find a place guaranteed to keep Elijah from finding it. Swear to God, the kid had a nose for sniffing out the thing. And now there it was, offending piece of electronics nestled safely between Elijah's hip and Orlando's knee. A quick glance at the screen verified what Viggo had already figured out, based on the noises he'd heard. They were playing Doom. Of course they were. Karl was, he just knew, going to be thrilled when he decided to show up. And then there'd be three of them yelling obscenities at the television. Oh, God. Viggo was too old for this. He gave the PlayStation a dirty look and sprawled on the sofa beside Sean. "You put them up to this, didn't you?" "Not me, mate," Sean replied, flashing a quick grin before returning to what he'd been doing. Which, from what Viggo could see, was trying to distract the dueling gamers. So far, it only seemed to be working on Elijah, who kept reaching back to smack at Sean's foot. Which, of course, led to him missing a shot. And that set Orlando to crowing in delight as he took back the controller. "Watch how it's done, kid," he said, in what Viggo thought was supposed to be a Jimmy Cagney impersonation. Or maybe it was Bogart. Either way, it failed. Miserably. More explosions and what, Viggo was sure, was supposed to be gunfire. It sounded more like a sick Laser Tag gun. Who the hell came up with the sounds for these things, anyway? Several minutes (though it felt like an eternity if you asked him, but clearly, no one was) passed, full of bells and beeps and whistles and the random explosion, and Orlando was in his zone (at least Viggo assumed there was a zone involved -- with Orlando it was often hard to tell). Then the doorbell rang. The obviously non-game generated sound made Orlando jump and miss his shot, which led to some rather inventive (and loud) cursing on his part. Elijah just screamed with laughter as he took the controls, and Viggo went to answer the door. It was Karl. Of course it was. Viggo had a sudden vision of the rest of the weekend. Video game hell. He was going to kill someone, and just who the hell had suggested they all get together for the weekend, anyway? Ah, right. He had. Next time he had such a brilliant idea, he was going to shoot himself. Somewhere non-life threatening (like his foot), but still painful enough to make him realize how idiotic the idea was. Shame he hadn't thought of that before he'd made the phone calls inviting everyone. There was a chorus of "Hullo, 'bout time, you're late, here have a beer," as Karl stepped in the door and grinned. "You're late," Viggo repeated, closing the door and leaning against it. "Traffic's hell, mate," Karl replied, but he was already distracted. Viggo didn't need to see Karl's face to know his eyes were glazed over as he stared at the television. Viggo sighed and sat down. He needed another beer. Or something a hell of a lot stronger. It took exactly seven seconds (Viggo timed it) for Karl to horn in on the action, scooting Orlando out of the way and taking the controller from Elijah as it attempted to make its way back to Orlando. There was an indignant "Oi!" from Orlando, accompanied by a frown, by Karl just grinned and said, "Pay attention." Orlando did. For about ten seconds. Which was, apparently, all the time he needed to see that Karl was definitely better at this game than he was. That revelation led to some minor sulking on Orlando's part, then he deftly filched Karl's beer and slid up onto the sofa. Beside Viggo. Who, really, just didn't know how much more of this he was going to be able to handle. Not much, that was obvious. And Orlando, with a hand on Viggo's knee, was clearly planning on testing that theory. "What," Viggo asked, plucking the offending hand from his knee and moving it back to Orlando's side of the sofa, "are you doing?" "Just being friendly like is all," Orlando said. He smiled brightly as his hand found its way back to Viggo's knee. "Amorous is more like it," Sean muttered, hiding his grin by taking another swig of beer. "Shut up, you," Viggo muttered back, sparing a glare for Sean before returning his attention to Orlando, who had, in the meantime, turned into an octopus. It felt like it, anyway. What the hell was up with him, anyway? And when had he developed so many hands that, seemingly, wanted to get themselves on some part of Viggo's body. Viggo decided (as he fended off another hand) that he was lucky it was still the middle of the day. He shuddered to think of what he'd be in store for if it was dark. Probably a groping or two. Not that Orlando wasn't doing his level best to get a quick grope in at the moment. "Would you stop that?" Viggo's voice was louder than he intended, and he winced as two sets of eyes swung from the television to stare at them. Then Karl nudged Elijah, grinned, and went back to the game. Fuckers. "You don't want me being friendly?" "You can be friendly without mauling me." Just ignore the hurt look in Orlando's eyes. It was fake. After all, Orlando was a man, and Viggo knew men. He was one himself. Capturing a hand that crept towards his thigh, Viggo gave Orlando a very dark look. "Hands to yourself, elfboy." "Aw, don't poop on the party, Vigs," Orlando said in a much too innocent tone. It didn't help matters that he gave a very owlish blink at the end there. "That's party pooper, Orli," Elijah chimed in, eyes riveted to the screen as he navigated a set of stairs. "Isn't that what I said?" A throw pillow sailed through the air, compliments of Orlando, and connected with Elijah's shoulder. "Hey!" and that led to a bit of scuffling that spilled over into Viggo's lap. He managed to shove them off and, with Karl's help, get them separated. "Glad to see some things never change," Sean murmured, giving his own innocent look when Viggo glanced at him. "What?" "Shut up." "What'd I do?" "Just shut up." "Vigs?" That nickname, in that particular wheedling tone that Orlando adopted whenever he was about to say something guaranteed to make the listener want to pound him into the pavement, made Viggo's shoulders hunch. He turned his head in a slow arc, reluctant to do or say anything to encourage Orlando. "Yes?" "When're you gonna let me fuck you?" Viggo felt his jaw hit the floor at about the exact same time he heard Sean spit his mouthful of beer across the room. Karl and Elijah twisted around to stare, and even the game fell silent, as if it, too, was waiting on a response. Viggo wasn't sure he had a response, wasn't sure there was a response to that question. So he settled on the safest one that came to mind. "What?" "When're you --" Orlando stopped when Viggo held up a hand. "I heard you," he said, and then looked at Orlando, wondering if he looked as startled (and disconcerted, really) as he felt. "I'm not." "Why not?" Orlando's brow wrinkled in that way it did when he was confused, and Viggo decided it was best to just blame it on the beer. "Because I'm straight," Viggo said. He felt stupid over having to point out the obvious. "So'm I." Another obvious, and Viggo peered at Orlando, suspicion growing. Which one of the other fuckers had put him up to this? Sean snickered. Ten to one odds that the number one suspect was still the number one suspect. "Well, there you go, then," Viggo said, and blinked when Orlando grinned. "So you will?" "No!" "But you said --" "I said I'm straight. And you said you're straight," Viggo pointed out, feeling his patience fraying rapidly with each word. "So why would you want to?" "Because everyone thinks we are, so don't you think we oughta?" That was said with such a patently fake innocent look that Viggo almost slugged him. And Sean was going to be next on the list of sluggees if he didn't stop spitting beer all over the damn living room. "Who is everyone? Nevermind," Viggo said, quickly, holding up a hand again when Orlando opened his mouth. "If everyone thought you should jump off a bridge, would you?" As soon as he said it, Viggo knew it was entirely the wrong argument to use. And Orlando, being Orlando, proved him right when he grinned, and said, "Well, yeah. Think it'd be fun." "Well, fucking me wouldn't be fun," Viggo muttered. "How d'you know?" Orlando was nothing if not persistent. Especially when drunk. "Think fucking you'd be lots of fun. We get on well enough, right? And I can't imagine it'd be too different, really. Not the mechanics, anyway. Just, you know, need more lube." "He's got a point, Vig," Karl said, grinning as if there was a normal, every day conversation for him. Though, given his friendship with Harry, it just might be. "Don't encourage him," Viggo said, transferring his glare to Karl, who just continued grinning. Cheeky bastard. "Orli doesn't need encouraging," Elijah piped up, smiling wide enough to split his face in half. "I can't believe I'm having this conversation," Viggo groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. "We're not going to fuck, Orlando, and that's that." "But --" "Besides," Sean drawled, earning himself a dirty look from Viggo, "that's not exactly the most romantic way of asking someone." "Romance? Viggo wants romance?" Orlando blinked, looking a little nonplussed at the idea. Viggo groaned again. "No! I don't want anything. Certainly not you fucking me." "Oh." Orlando seemed to think about that for a second. Then he grinned. And Viggo groaned again. "Well, you could fuck me, then!" "Hey, now there's a thought," Karl said. "Karl, shut up. Orlando, don't be a boor." "I'm not boring!" Viggo sighed at the indignant protest. He should've known better. "No, dumbass, a boor is a rude…oh, just forget it." Shaking his head, Viggo got up. Now would be a good time to check the fire out back. Maybe the idea of burnt meat would get Orlando's mind off sex. Though Viggo had his doubts about that one. A drunk Orlando usually equaled a horny Orlando. "Think it's rather rude of you to not even give it a chance. And then calling me boring…" Orlando frowned up at Viggo, then belched. In his defense, he did try to muffle it behind a hand. Viggo just frowned at him. "What?" "Nothing," Viggo muttered. When Orlando scratched his chest (looking decidedly like a drunken monkey searching for nits), Viggo gave up. Muttering to himself, he went back into the kitchen. Never again, he told himself, ignoring the fact that he'd said the same thing last summer. It was going to be a long weekend. ~fin~