NaNoWriMo - The Story So Far, Parts 17-20
With much love to mgal, the bestest beta in the land.
17. Cloud On My Tongue
You're already in there. I'll be wearing your tattoo.
Orlando/Sean, PG, 500 words
Sean turns Orlando's arm over in his hand and studies the ink underneath the skin. The black marking is a stark contrast to the tan of Orlando's skin, a tan that Bean is barely used to seeing, given that Legolas was always so perfectly pale, but Orli's been spending a lot of time in the sun lately, probably surfing without sunscreen just because he can now. The mark is still fresh, and when Sean runs his thumb over the slightly raised area, Orlando grins, a toothy, encouraging smile. "What's another tattoo to you, Beanie?" Orlando prods, almost goading Sean with a lift of an eyebrow. Sean runs his thumb over the mark again, noting, despite himself, the softness of the younger man's skin.
"Come on, man," Elwood butts in, encouragingly pulling down the front of his jeans to reveal the small Elvish lettering on his bony, white hip. "Everyone did it. Well, not John, but Brett, and even Viggo," he offers eagerly, bouncing around Sean to hold his hip next to Orlando's arm. The difference between their skin is startling, and Bean almost looks away from Elijah for fear he'll be able to see directly through his skin, all the way down, past his blood and veins, to the bone itself.
Elijah finally hikes his pants back up and pulls on Sean's shirt sleeve, rolling it up to his shoulder. "Right there, man, he says, pointing to his bicep. "Get it there."
Orlando nods in agreement, and Sean, realizing he's still holding Orlando's arm, finally pulls away.
The needle doesn't hurt, not really. It stings a little, but it's a familiar sting, one that he remembers from getting his "100% Blade" tattoo on the other arm. What's different, this time, is that Orlando is right next to him the whole time, his face so close to Sean's body that his breath actually moves the hair on the back of Sean's neck, sending little goose bumps up his arm. Sean watches Orlando watching him, watches the younger man circling him, surveying the tattoo artist's work, while Elijah sits a few feet away and occasionally giggles into his hand. Orlando brushes up against Sean, the soft fabric of his t-shirt warm against Sean's naked back. Sean can't move away, and Orlando doesn't. Instead, he moves closer, studying Sean's arm intently, and Sean can feel the rise and fall of Orlando's ribcage against his spine when he breathes. He makes a little humming noise in the back of his throat, approving of the tattoo artist's work, and Bean closes his eyes.
When the tattoo is finished, Orlando finally backs away, and Bean's back is cold from the loss. He stands up and grabs his dress shirt, pulling it on and quickly buttoning it. "Don't you want to look?" Orlando asks, gesturing toward a nearby mirror in which Elijah is intently pushing down the hair on the top of his head.
Sean shakes his head. "I already know what it looks like," he answers.
*****
18. Cornflake Girl
This is not really happening-- You bet your life it is.
Hannah/Elijah, R, 500 words
For as long as she can remember, Hannah has kept a journal. She's got stacks of notebooks buried in boxes and crates, shoved into the back of her closet and under her bed and in a trunk in the corner of her room. All of them are filled. Before she learned to write, there are drawings, pictures of houses with chimneys and trees with pink leaves and little stick figures that represent her family. There are airplanes and cars and boats, all drawn in spiral notebooks with Crayola crayons, markers, colored pencils. There are the earliest written entries, scrawled in the tentative writing of a child, sentences composed of monosyllabic words like "mom" and "school." As she got older, the pages filled with poetry, scribbled words of pre-teen angst and "I hate my father" and doodles in the corner of butterflies, the only things she really knows how to draw. The pages she fills now smell like cigarette smoke. Some of them are spotted with burns and ash. Some of them are ripped, corners torn away to use as scrap paper. She writes something every day, no matter what, keeps a record of everything in her slanted handwriting.
Well, almost everything. She never writes about Elijah.
If she were to write about Elijah, she'd probably talk about what a good brother he is, how he supports her, lets her live with him when she's lost and confused and doesn't know what exactly she's supposed to be doing with her life. And she'd write about how he doesn't judge her for that, never says anything condescending, not like their mother. He never pushes her, prods her, never yells at her for being lazy when she sprawls on the couch for a day or a week and does nothing but watch television and smoke. If anything, he empathizes with her, reassures her that she's not the only one who is confused, that he doesn't always, or even usually, know what he wants, either. When that happens, he just orders pizza and gets lazy with her, settling in for a long weekend of lounging in their pajamas together.
That's what she'd write. That's the truth, too, because she'd never lie in her journal. But it's not the whole truth, either, and that's why she doesn't write anything about Elijah at all.
If she were to write about Elijah, she'd have to leave things out. She'd neglect to mention the fact that he tastes like cigarette smoke, all the time, even right after he brushes his teeth and should, by all rights, taste like mint. She'd leave out the way that he wakes up achingly hard in the morning and how she loves coming awake with him inside of her, the veil of morning fog lifting until the sunlight streaming in through the windows is unbearably bright. She wouldn't tell about the times they make love in the dark and Elijah comes, whispering her name.
Rather than leave anything out, Hannah leaves everything out.
*****
19. Crazy
He said, "First, let's just unzip your religion down."
Billy/Dom, PG-13, 500 words
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession." Dom hesitates and takes a deep breath. The confessional is overwhelmingly hot. A droplet of sweat forms on the back of his neck and rolls slowly down into the collar of his shirt, and he reaches up and tugs at his tie, which seems to be cutting off his circulation. His palms are damp, and he wipes them anxiously on his knees, leaving two dark spots on his cotton khakis.
Through the window, Dom can see Father Boyd shift in his seat and take a deep breath of his own, leaning forward to speak to Dom through the screen that separates them.
"What have you to confess, son?" Father Boyd asks, his lilting Scottish accent seeming to soothe Dom's conscience like a balm.
Dom clears his throat and licks his lips. "I had sex with a man in this confessional," he admits. He pauses and closes his eyes, waiting for Father Boyd to say something, to yell at him, to encourage him to go on, but the priest says nothing. Dom squirms, the wood of his seat suddenly incredibly uncomfortable, and it takes all of his energy not to just run out of the confessional, out of the church itself.
Then Father Boyd speaks. "Yes, son?"
Dom breathes a sigh of relief, and suddenly the floodgates open. "I dreamed about him, Father, that's how it started, one night I dreamed that he was in my bed, touching me, kissing me. When I woke up, I... touched myself," Dom admits. "The next time I saw him, I couldn't help myself. It was like I had no control over what I was doing-- I wanted him, and I just took what I wanted. And now I can't stop thinking about him. How can I stop?"
Father Boyd is silent for so long that Dom begins to worry that he's going to be told there's nothing to be done to save his immortal soul, he's an unforgivable sinner, he's damned, he's evil, he's going to hell. But just as Dom is about to leave the confessional hopeless, Father Boyd speaks. "Do you want to stop, my child?"
You'll go directly to Hell if you lie in a confessional, Dom thinks. "Not... Not really, Father. But I should, shouldn't I?"
The priest hesitates. "Ten Our Fathers, Ten Hail Marys and an Act of Contrition," Father Boyd says. "I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
"Thank you, Father," Dom whispers, genuinely grateful for the absolution. He makes the Sign of the Cross and then leaves the confessional, kneeling in a pew nearby to say his penance.
He's not startled when he hears a voice next to him, a soft, Scottish accent, chanting along with his prayers. Dom turns his head and looks over to see the priest kneeling next to him, doing the same penance.
*****
20. Crucify
"Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets."
Orlando/most of the cast, NC-17, 500 words
He knows the rumors. He's heard the whispers in the makeup trailer, in the dining area, in the pubs after filming wraps for the day. Orlando's fucked everyone in the cast, they say. There's not a Hobbit or a Man he hasn't had.
They're not true, of course. Orlando has his standards. He's not remotely interested in Astin, or John, for that matter, although he did kiss John that one time in the pub. He'd had a few too many drinks which, for Orlando, is three beers, and Karl had to drag him home. Orlando protested the entire way that John actually was a very pretty man, despite the rash, and Karl had just laughed at him and then fucked him into the mattress when they got home.
He never fucked Billy. Their contact was limited to a hurried blowjob in the front seat of Orlando's car, after which Orlando tried to kiss him and Billy pushed him away, complaining that his breath smelled like dick. And he didn't fuck Ian, although not for lack of willingness on either of their parts. Sometimes the mind is willing but the body (namely, Ian's) isn't able.
But he did fuck Dom, on the beach, of all clichéd things. Afterward, when he was still finding sand in uncomfortable places two days later, he swore not to make that mistake again. That's why he fucked Elijah in wardrobe, on a nice soft pile of clean Elvish leggings, Elijah giggling like a schoolgirl the entire time while protesting that he'd never done that with a man before. Based on the way that Elijah spread out before him, eager and panting and calling out Orlando's name so loudly that he actually had to clamp a hand over the youngest Hobbit's mouth, Orlando didn't really believe that story.
He fucked Liv, which was weird, not because Orlando had never been with a woman before (he's been with his share of both sexes, thank you), but because Liv was so quiet that it was unnerving. The only sounds she made were a quiet sigh when he entered her and another when she came.
Bean was the last one he actually fucked, in the complete darkness of his hotel room. He muttered a string of profanities the whole time, a litany of curse words, some so gross that Orlando was almost convinced he needed to go to church afterward. Not that he did, of course.
When he started sleeping with Viggo, that was the end of it. They didn't fuck. That was not really the word for it. With Viggo, it was more like exploration, a careful discovery of skin and mouths and legs. With Viggo, it was something else, something different, almost something more. It was something that made him regret working his way through the rest of the cast, regret the rumors that swirled around both of them. But Viggo never cared about the rumors, never paid them any attention, because he knew he never fucked Orlando.
P.S. - Just got back from seeing Jarhead. Someone stop me from fangirling Jake Gyllenhaal. Wait, too late...
17. Cloud On My Tongue
You're already in there. I'll be wearing your tattoo.
Orlando/Sean, PG, 500 words
Sean turns Orlando's arm over in his hand and studies the ink underneath the skin. The black marking is a stark contrast to the tan of Orlando's skin, a tan that Bean is barely used to seeing, given that Legolas was always so perfectly pale, but Orli's been spending a lot of time in the sun lately, probably surfing without sunscreen just because he can now. The mark is still fresh, and when Sean runs his thumb over the slightly raised area, Orlando grins, a toothy, encouraging smile. "What's another tattoo to you, Beanie?" Orlando prods, almost goading Sean with a lift of an eyebrow. Sean runs his thumb over the mark again, noting, despite himself, the softness of the younger man's skin.
"Come on, man," Elwood butts in, encouragingly pulling down the front of his jeans to reveal the small Elvish lettering on his bony, white hip. "Everyone did it. Well, not John, but Brett, and even Viggo," he offers eagerly, bouncing around Sean to hold his hip next to Orlando's arm. The difference between their skin is startling, and Bean almost looks away from Elijah for fear he'll be able to see directly through his skin, all the way down, past his blood and veins, to the bone itself.
Elijah finally hikes his pants back up and pulls on Sean's shirt sleeve, rolling it up to his shoulder. "Right there, man, he says, pointing to his bicep. "Get it there."
Orlando nods in agreement, and Sean, realizing he's still holding Orlando's arm, finally pulls away.
The needle doesn't hurt, not really. It stings a little, but it's a familiar sting, one that he remembers from getting his "100% Blade" tattoo on the other arm. What's different, this time, is that Orlando is right next to him the whole time, his face so close to Sean's body that his breath actually moves the hair on the back of Sean's neck, sending little goose bumps up his arm. Sean watches Orlando watching him, watches the younger man circling him, surveying the tattoo artist's work, while Elijah sits a few feet away and occasionally giggles into his hand. Orlando brushes up against Sean, the soft fabric of his t-shirt warm against Sean's naked back. Sean can't move away, and Orlando doesn't. Instead, he moves closer, studying Sean's arm intently, and Sean can feel the rise and fall of Orlando's ribcage against his spine when he breathes. He makes a little humming noise in the back of his throat, approving of the tattoo artist's work, and Bean closes his eyes.
When the tattoo is finished, Orlando finally backs away, and Bean's back is cold from the loss. He stands up and grabs his dress shirt, pulling it on and quickly buttoning it. "Don't you want to look?" Orlando asks, gesturing toward a nearby mirror in which Elijah is intently pushing down the hair on the top of his head.
Sean shakes his head. "I already know what it looks like," he answers.
*****
18. Cornflake Girl
This is not really happening-- You bet your life it is.
Hannah/Elijah, R, 500 words
For as long as she can remember, Hannah has kept a journal. She's got stacks of notebooks buried in boxes and crates, shoved into the back of her closet and under her bed and in a trunk in the corner of her room. All of them are filled. Before she learned to write, there are drawings, pictures of houses with chimneys and trees with pink leaves and little stick figures that represent her family. There are airplanes and cars and boats, all drawn in spiral notebooks with Crayola crayons, markers, colored pencils. There are the earliest written entries, scrawled in the tentative writing of a child, sentences composed of monosyllabic words like "mom" and "school." As she got older, the pages filled with poetry, scribbled words of pre-teen angst and "I hate my father" and doodles in the corner of butterflies, the only things she really knows how to draw. The pages she fills now smell like cigarette smoke. Some of them are spotted with burns and ash. Some of them are ripped, corners torn away to use as scrap paper. She writes something every day, no matter what, keeps a record of everything in her slanted handwriting.
Well, almost everything. She never writes about Elijah.
If she were to write about Elijah, she'd probably talk about what a good brother he is, how he supports her, lets her live with him when she's lost and confused and doesn't know what exactly she's supposed to be doing with her life. And she'd write about how he doesn't judge her for that, never says anything condescending, not like their mother. He never pushes her, prods her, never yells at her for being lazy when she sprawls on the couch for a day or a week and does nothing but watch television and smoke. If anything, he empathizes with her, reassures her that she's not the only one who is confused, that he doesn't always, or even usually, know what he wants, either. When that happens, he just orders pizza and gets lazy with her, settling in for a long weekend of lounging in their pajamas together.
That's what she'd write. That's the truth, too, because she'd never lie in her journal. But it's not the whole truth, either, and that's why she doesn't write anything about Elijah at all.
If she were to write about Elijah, she'd have to leave things out. She'd neglect to mention the fact that he tastes like cigarette smoke, all the time, even right after he brushes his teeth and should, by all rights, taste like mint. She'd leave out the way that he wakes up achingly hard in the morning and how she loves coming awake with him inside of her, the veil of morning fog lifting until the sunlight streaming in through the windows is unbearably bright. She wouldn't tell about the times they make love in the dark and Elijah comes, whispering her name.
Rather than leave anything out, Hannah leaves everything out.
*****
19. Crazy
He said, "First, let's just unzip your religion down."
Billy/Dom, PG-13, 500 words
"Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It has been five days since my last confession." Dom hesitates and takes a deep breath. The confessional is overwhelmingly hot. A droplet of sweat forms on the back of his neck and rolls slowly down into the collar of his shirt, and he reaches up and tugs at his tie, which seems to be cutting off his circulation. His palms are damp, and he wipes them anxiously on his knees, leaving two dark spots on his cotton khakis.
Through the window, Dom can see Father Boyd shift in his seat and take a deep breath of his own, leaning forward to speak to Dom through the screen that separates them.
"What have you to confess, son?" Father Boyd asks, his lilting Scottish accent seeming to soothe Dom's conscience like a balm.
Dom clears his throat and licks his lips. "I had sex with a man in this confessional," he admits. He pauses and closes his eyes, waiting for Father Boyd to say something, to yell at him, to encourage him to go on, but the priest says nothing. Dom squirms, the wood of his seat suddenly incredibly uncomfortable, and it takes all of his energy not to just run out of the confessional, out of the church itself.
Then Father Boyd speaks. "Yes, son?"
Dom breathes a sigh of relief, and suddenly the floodgates open. "I dreamed about him, Father, that's how it started, one night I dreamed that he was in my bed, touching me, kissing me. When I woke up, I... touched myself," Dom admits. "The next time I saw him, I couldn't help myself. It was like I had no control over what I was doing-- I wanted him, and I just took what I wanted. And now I can't stop thinking about him. How can I stop?"
Father Boyd is silent for so long that Dom begins to worry that he's going to be told there's nothing to be done to save his immortal soul, he's an unforgivable sinner, he's damned, he's evil, he's going to hell. But just as Dom is about to leave the confessional hopeless, Father Boyd speaks. "Do you want to stop, my child?"
You'll go directly to Hell if you lie in a confessional, Dom thinks. "Not... Not really, Father. But I should, shouldn't I?"
The priest hesitates. "Ten Our Fathers, Ten Hail Marys and an Act of Contrition," Father Boyd says. "I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."
"Thank you, Father," Dom whispers, genuinely grateful for the absolution. He makes the Sign of the Cross and then leaves the confessional, kneeling in a pew nearby to say his penance.
He's not startled when he hears a voice next to him, a soft, Scottish accent, chanting along with his prayers. Dom turns his head and looks over to see the priest kneeling next to him, doing the same penance.
*****
20. Crucify
"Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets."
Orlando/most of the cast, NC-17, 500 words
He knows the rumors. He's heard the whispers in the makeup trailer, in the dining area, in the pubs after filming wraps for the day. Orlando's fucked everyone in the cast, they say. There's not a Hobbit or a Man he hasn't had.
They're not true, of course. Orlando has his standards. He's not remotely interested in Astin, or John, for that matter, although he did kiss John that one time in the pub. He'd had a few too many drinks which, for Orlando, is three beers, and Karl had to drag him home. Orlando protested the entire way that John actually was a very pretty man, despite the rash, and Karl had just laughed at him and then fucked him into the mattress when they got home.
He never fucked Billy. Their contact was limited to a hurried blowjob in the front seat of Orlando's car, after which Orlando tried to kiss him and Billy pushed him away, complaining that his breath smelled like dick. And he didn't fuck Ian, although not for lack of willingness on either of their parts. Sometimes the mind is willing but the body (namely, Ian's) isn't able.
But he did fuck Dom, on the beach, of all clichéd things. Afterward, when he was still finding sand in uncomfortable places two days later, he swore not to make that mistake again. That's why he fucked Elijah in wardrobe, on a nice soft pile of clean Elvish leggings, Elijah giggling like a schoolgirl the entire time while protesting that he'd never done that with a man before. Based on the way that Elijah spread out before him, eager and panting and calling out Orlando's name so loudly that he actually had to clamp a hand over the youngest Hobbit's mouth, Orlando didn't really believe that story.
He fucked Liv, which was weird, not because Orlando had never been with a woman before (he's been with his share of both sexes, thank you), but because Liv was so quiet that it was unnerving. The only sounds she made were a quiet sigh when he entered her and another when she came.
Bean was the last one he actually fucked, in the complete darkness of his hotel room. He muttered a string of profanities the whole time, a litany of curse words, some so gross that Orlando was almost convinced he needed to go to church afterward. Not that he did, of course.
When he started sleeping with Viggo, that was the end of it. They didn't fuck. That was not really the word for it. With Viggo, it was more like exploration, a careful discovery of skin and mouths and legs. With Viggo, it was something else, something different, almost something more. It was something that made him regret working his way through the rest of the cast, regret the rumors that swirled around both of them. But Viggo never cared about the rumors, never paid them any attention, because he knew he never fucked Orlando.
P.S. - Just got back from seeing Jarhead. Someone stop me from fangirling Jake Gyllenhaal. Wait, too late...