*The White Stripes*
***

***Sean***

The smoke was twirling away from him, toward the ceiling, mocking him just by the way it was moving, all made of sensual, never ending curves. Just like the woman he'd seen in Viggo's arms that night. He took another deep drag on his fag and, once more, let go the smoke, which, again, disappeared before reaching the high ceiling of the hotel's bedroom.

"Forget about the bloody whole thing, daft wanker! He's not for you," he muttered aloud, for himself and the walls to hear only.

He'd seen him leave with her, winking in good-natured acknowledgement of the hobbits' very mature catcalls and whistles. Sean knew it was better this way. He'd been through three marriages already, after all. He knew what love felt like, looked like, hurt like. And seeing Viggo leave with that girl -

"-no - Woman, not girl,"

had been painful, 'cause he'd wished he'd been the one winking at the hobbits while holding the Dane's hand. Bloody fucking shite.

When he took a look at his fag, it looked more like a tube of ash, so he put it carefully aside in the ashtray and lit another one; thoughts driving him crazy with each pull at the cancer stick.

Viggo wasn't alone and he was.

Not just alone in this room. But also alone earlier in the club, where Viggo had found other company and the hobbits'n'orli had stuck together as usual and then paired off, Orli and Lijah leaving together, Dom and Billy amusing themselves on the dancefloor. Just utterly, painfully alone.

He'd hoped he could catch Vig in a corner at some point and talk with him, but Aragorn's incarnation had quickly hooked up with a thirty-some cute brunette and so Sean had ended the evening conversing with his pint of Boddingtons's ale. How dull and pathetic. And tomorrow - Hell, tomorrow was off and he didn't know what he'd do, except that he'd been invited for breakfast at Fidel's with Billy and Dominic. Better than nothing. Perhaps they'd have a heated footie quarrel. United vs Blades and Skirt Boy keeping count of their points. The thought made him smile. Dark blue smoke was surrounding him, Viggo's eyes were the exact same colour, he recalled, when he was angry or worried, or - horny, Well, that's how he was picturing it in his mind. A lusting Viggo, panting on top of another body -

"Stop! For Christ's sake, stop it. Jesus."

He raised his eyes at that moment and noticed that his cell phone was moving on top of the drawer facing the bed. Great. He'd forgotten to put the ringer back on when he'd taken it off his belt. He got up and grabbed it, but apparently he hadn't been quick enough. But the caller had left a message on his voice mail.

"Hey Sean... err... sorry to call so late. I guess you're sleeping. Oh. Well. Nevermind I called, 'kay? Guess I'll see you around on the set. Bye."

Viggo's voice was insecure, hesitant.

Sean smiled. Perhaps he wasn't alone after all. All he needed to do was hit the redial button on his phone to reach Viggo through this small miracle of technology. He crushed his last fag in the ashtray and blew the smoke, smiling at it while someone answered at the other end of the line.

***Elijah***

Elijah had been chain-smoking on the balcony ever since he'd come back from the club, a little more than an hour ago. He hadn't had his nicotine dose back at the club as he'd forgotten his cigs in his hotel room and he was making up for it.

It had started out as a nice evening. He'd met that cute babe, Annie, and they'd had a good time on the dance floor together. But she'd had to go early and meet with her sister and some friends "Chris and Ashley won't wait for me, Elijah! I gotta go." she'd said- and all that was left of her was her name and phone number on a crushed piece of paper.

A piece that was still in one of the pockets of his pants. He'd changed clothes when he'd gotten back to the hotel. Put on worn out jeans and a plain t-shirt and loosened his Converse to make them feel just like slippers. True comfort, just like the cig he had between his lips. The need for nicotine had lessened, but not entirely yet, plus something was bothering him.

Orlando.

Orli, whom he'd danced with when Annie'd left. That'd felt so good, so... Right. Just like that cigarette they'd shared. But Orlando'd acted a bit awkwardly with him. He'd glanced at him, mumbled something and he'd disappeared, after crushing the cig.

Strangely enough, Lijah had felt as though it was his heart that'd been crushed.

"What the fuck was that, Elwood? You can't be falling for one of your friends, especially when you've got a lot of shooting left to do in the next couple of months. You can't do that, not to you - not to him."

All the while, as he was speaking to himself, aloud, he kept staring at the red spot the cigarette was emitting in the darkness of the early hours of the day. Making his way back inside the room, he headed for the drawer, on top of which stood a big mirror. Gazing straight at his mirror image, he talked to himself some more.

"Christ, Elijah Jordan Wood - You're one pathetic dude. Don't believe me? Just look at the evidence. First," he then accusingly pointed his finger at himself in the mirror, "you definitely /are/ falling for friend and elf Orlando Bloom, sexiest Brit on the set, who was smashing last night in these leather pants and this oh-so-tight shirt. Sinful, that was, I can agree. Second," he drew a deep breath and looked sternly at his reflection, "you've started talking to yourself in the mirror again, which ain't good at all. I'd told you to stop doing that, but you won't listen to me now, will you?"

He sighed. He would not give in to this. Cause Orlando pain at the idea of one of the people he trusted the most - a male friend! - being in love with him - or at least, feeling as though this would soon be the case.

But he wouldn't let it happen anyway now, would he?

"No, I won't."

Fuck! Again, out loud, for the world to hear his insanity. But as he spoke, he moved toward the cell phone that was calling him, lighting another cigarette, dialing up the number he'd grown to know by heart. The months of friendship behind them reminded him that there were less of them ahead now. This journey would eventually end. He put the speaker next to his ear and sighed.

Orlando was on the phone. Damn voice mail. He hung up. Stared triumphantly at himself in the mirror once more.

"Ah! You seen? I did not do it. I told you I wouldn't. Little motherfucker, always doubting me," but as he realized what it meant, his smile faded and the petulant look he sported switched to one of infinite sadness. He sighed, "shut up, Lij" Better this way."

And so he shut up, returned on the balcony. Lit up yet another cig and smiled bitterly. At no one in particular. At his reflection in the mirror. At Orlando, but Orli wasn't there to see it.

"No... I won't let it happen"

*** Viggo***

Viggo was standing by the glass door giving access to the balcony. He was staring outside, chain-smoking like he'd never chained-smoked in his life.

Inside the rented room, part of the furniture was down, some chairs, a small drawer. The bed was a mess, the sheets were undone, as though a fight had taken place not that long ago. There were two delicate glasses and a bottle of Sheridan on the table, along with a newly opened bottle of vodka.

One of the glasses, his, half empty; the other one, though mostly untouched, showed traces of lipstick. The same lipstick that still lingered on the actor's lips, neck, cheeks and collar.

The air smelled of vodka, Viggo holding a shooter glass in the hand not busy with the cigarettes; of sex, wild and hot and moist, so thick that Viggo could almost feel it, and of the woman's perfume.

Spices and vanilla, he thought. Not a bad perfume. Delicate and sexy, just as the woman - Stefanie - he remembered, felt, looked, was like. But the woman wasn't there anymore and it was Viggo's fault.

Perhaps he should have paid more attention to what he was saying, during an attempt at having a nice one night stand. Saying someone else's name was bad enough, but moaning a man's name!

"Oh... Seannnnnn," he'd moaned into her ear. Stefanie had been classy. No scene, no questions. She'd just looked at him, picked up her discarded clothes, got in the bathroom, dressed, picked up her cell, her keys and her purse and left.

It'd been more than two hours ago.

"Mortensen, you're such an ass," he quietly said to himself, not bothering saying it out loud. Another cigarette, another shot. But he still did not understand. Why the hell did he have to pick up a girl at the club in the first place? He could have stayed with Sean.

Sean, who'd looked so bored and lonely at the table while the hobbits and Orlando were having a blast. But early in the evening, as he'd gone to buy himself a drink, that girl had smiled at him and he'd thought, 'Why not?' Well, what had seemed okay then looked pretty stupid and shitty now.

He guessed that longing for Sean for a few months was more than what his libido could handle and here were the results. Breathing deeply as he was rummaging through his thoughts, he decided that the night could not turn out worse than it already had.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed Sean's number. While it was ringing at the other end, he realized, thinking about what'd just happened with Stefanie, his gut instinct probably wasn't worth crap right now and
"Why the fuck am I calling? What can I say for fuck's sake?"

And Sean's voice took him by surprise. Voice mail. Great. Improvisation 101. And his gut retreated even deeper inside him. He didn't know what to say anymore - not that he'd known before, he bitterly thought.

"Hey Sean" he began, "err... sorry to call so late. I guess you're sleeping. Oh. Well. Nevermind I called, 'kay? Guess I'll see you around on the set. Bye."

He hung up. Pulled on his cigarette, swallowed another shot of vodka. And as he decided he'd get royally pissed tonight, his phone rang. He answered. A familiar voice, with a British accent.

He smiled. Perhaps his gut had been right, after all

***Orlando***

Sadly enough, Orlando's pack was empty. He'd taken the last drag on his very last fag back at the club, sharing said fag with fellow hobbit Elijah Wood. The same Elijah Wood he'd tried to spend most of his spare time with, to enjoy his company as a friend, as it seemed it was all he could ever get out of that relationship of theirs.

"Bloody shit."

Why the fuck did he have to fall for one of his best mates, co-star and hottie to thousands of girls around the world, who'd all be more than pleased, would they ever be offered a chance to spend some time alone with the bloke.

Just like that girl, tonight - Annie. The bird had a funky style, hinting on punk-ish. Small babe, long blond hair (real colour, he'd noticed, no chemicals involved), laughing blue eyes and a killer smile. Eyes and smile just like Lij's. They'd danced together a couple of times and at some point she'd disappeared, but still, Lijah had managed to get her phone number and he'd proudly exhibited it to him.

'Annie. 49.52.91.79'

Orlando had been sitting at their table, noticing how Sean seemed to be anywhere but there, with them. Had been witness to Elijah and Viggo dancing with the cute birds and then the music was over, Viggo'd left the club with a wink, a nice woman following close behind, 'Annie' had vanished and an overexcited Doodle had joined him at the table, downed what was left of his latest drink and had grabbed Orlando's arm.

"C'mon, let's dance, dude. Music's too good to be wasted. Let's join 'em," he'd said, pouting slightly and Orlando had wished he was immune against that pouting lip. But he wasn't, didn't want to be and so he'd followed the Yankee on the dance floor, to 'join 'em'. - 'em' being Dom and Billy, who seemed to be having the time of their lives.

'At least those two are happy,' the Brit had thought. 'Bloody wankers! Couldn't keep it to themselves, at least this sodding night? I don't need a happy couple almost making out on the dance floor when I'm brooding over my celibate state. And when I fucking think about how edible Elijah is at the moment .'

They'd been dancing close to each other, as there wasn't enough space in the middle of the crowd. Black trousers hanging on his slim hips, white half opened shirt, black Converse and messed-up hair, heading in all directions.

'Sex on legs,' Orlando remembered. He was restlessly walking from his door to his bed and if it hadn't been for the fact there was no room under him, he probably would have been told to take it easy.

"Bugger off," he said out loud, to no one. And he thought again.

Later, when dancing'd been over, Lijah'd managed to have him share his last fag. That's when, while passing the clove from one to the other that he'd shown him the piece of paper with the name and the number. Calmly, he'd dragged deeply, one last time, on the fag, crushed it in an ashtray, said 'Goodbye, Lij', left the club, picked a taxi and got back to the hotel. To his room, where he was pacing deeply in need of one, two, three, four, hundreds of fags. Which he didn't have.

So he decided to act like a bloody arsehole and picked up the phone. Called Lij. Fuck. Engaged. Lij was already on the phone. At two in the morning?

Oh, fuck it. He picked his keys and wallet, walked for the door. What would have he said to the Yank, anyway?

"Nothing, daft git. Just nothin'."

Time to buy fags. What was left of the night was long enough.