When Viggo fucks Orlando he makes him close his eyes. The only time he allows it otherwise is one day in March when shooting wraps up half an hour early for once and Orlando still has his contacts in. Either way, it's still not the same.
Viggo frowns when the pupils don't flutter and twitch with the unevenness of Orlando's breath as his hand jerks awkwardly between them. Under the white lights of the trailer, the irises are too opaque and too consistently blue. There are no tiny flecks of gray or silver to shift the light, and the sudden rise of color in Orlando's face doesn't tinge them slightly green. Halfway through, Viggo passes his hand lightly over Orlando's face, and Orlando understands. He shuts his eyes, and looks away, and in return, Viggo lets Orlando fuck him this time.
:::
"Don't look," Viggo had said the first time, pushing Orlando's head away and into the back of the couch as he crawled down his body. He didn't seem to mind, and instead mewled quietly up towards the ceiling, as Viggo lapped up every wounded, strangled sound.
:::
Whenever they're together, Viggo can tell when Orlando is about to speak, and always whispers "No no no," before the words can come. He stops them by putting his dirty fingertips on Orlando's neck and his heavy tongue in Orlando's mouth. He kisses him and swallows the shape of Orlando's lips as they say his name or yes more or oh god. For some reason, the words always taste like snow and remind him of the blood he once licked from dry, chapped lips in the shadow of gathering storm clouds over Te Anau.
