Orlando should know better than to attempt to match the Kiwis in drinking games. He just didn't have the stamina for it, as Lawrence and Karl were always too happy to prove. That, however, didn't explain why Orlando was so sore when he woke up the next morning.
Granted, there was the usual hangover type of soreness, where he was convinced his head was going to explode or implode or something equally nasty and his stomach was going to come out through his nostrils. However, there was also the odd sore all over in places he shouldn't be sore in and just what had he been doing to make him feel like someone had made a pretzel of his body.
Mind you, there was that weird dream he'd had, but he was blaming that on the alcohol. After all, he just didn't look at Viggo like that and besides, Viggo was certifiably insane, and Orlando made a point to stay away from that type. At least he did in his sex partners, anyway. And the dream had been pretty bloody explicit, and why he thought Viggo was that athletic (or creative in bed, really) was a complete mystery, but still. Viggo. No, just no.
That still didn't explain the soreness of course. Or why every step felt like he'd pulled a muscle.
When he stepped into the make-up trailer a little later, Karl tried to cover his snickers by burying his face in a cup of coffee. Orlando just gave him a dirty look and gingerly sat in his chair. When Viggo walked in, Orlando hunched down and pretended to be invisible.
When Viggo caught his eye in the mirror and winked, Orlando shot straight up and blinked. "Oh, fuck me..."
"Yeah," Karl drawled, face still buried in his mug. "I'd say that sums up last night pretty well, mate."
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Date: 2009-01-11 11:31 pm (UTC)Granted, there was the usual hangover type of soreness, where he was convinced his head was going to explode or implode or something equally nasty and his stomach was going to come out through his nostrils. However, there was also the odd sore all over in places he shouldn't be sore in and just what had he been doing to make him feel like someone had made a pretzel of his body.
Mind you, there was that weird dream he'd had, but he was blaming that on the alcohol. After all, he just didn't look at Viggo like that and besides, Viggo was certifiably insane, and Orlando made a point to stay away from that type. At least he did in his sex partners, anyway. And the dream had been pretty bloody explicit, and why he thought Viggo was that athletic (or creative in bed, really) was a complete mystery, but still. Viggo. No, just no.
That still didn't explain the soreness of course. Or why every step felt like he'd pulled a muscle.
When he stepped into the make-up trailer a little later, Karl tried to cover his snickers by burying his face in a cup of coffee. Orlando just gave him a dirty look and gingerly sat in his chair. When Viggo walked in, Orlando hunched down and pretended to be invisible.
When Viggo caught his eye in the mirror and winked, Orlando shot straight up and blinked. "Oh, fuck me..."
"Yeah," Karl drawled, face still buried in his mug. "I'd say that sums up last night pretty well, mate."