"Spectacle" - LOTRPF by queenofalostart
Title: Spectacle
Keywords: LOTRPF, Viggo, Dom
Notes: For the fandom_aid charity drive, as requested by my Squee!Mail girlies. Bastards, the whole lot of you! Five 100-word drabbles to get me jump-started.
Summary: "Dom tries to think of words to say to Viggo, but the perfect ones are stuck to the bottom of his glass and there's no getting them out until its bottom-side up."
*
Dom stumbles onstage, buoyed by anonymous hands from the crowd and Bean's distinctive heckling from the bar. Elijah smiles, wicked and sharp, the microphone cord twisted around his wrist. The black cord gleams against Elijah's bright white wrist and Dom shakes his head loose when he realizes that Elijah is offering him the microphone with a "How many have you fucking had, mate?" Must have been too many, because Dom is taking the microphone and telling the crowd to "shut the fuck up, yeah?" and now they're laughing and hollering and he knows what he has to do, doesn't he?
*
Dom finishes out the song, screaming himself raw and feeling more than a bit dizzy with the effort. The crowd goes fucking bonkers for it, don't they, huh, and there's the rush, the rush that got him on stage the first time, and he just lets it take him.
It takes him all the way to the bar, back slaps and kisses and open mouths shouting joy and good-natured derision. He's an entertainer, a showman, "a show-off, more like it," but it's what he does, always the life of the party and more often than not a right fucking mess.
*
Viggo presses a drink into Dom's hand, the glass cool and slick and the beer only a little bit frothy. ("Perfect, mate.") Dom gulps it down, dribble on his chin, sticky fingers pushing against skin and wiping the wet away as he smiles up, up, and up at Viggo.
Viggo, who's not smiling, not frowning, just fucking looking, sipping at his drink like he knows something Dom doesn't. Dom tries to think of words to say to him, but the perfect ones are stuck to the bottom of his glass and there's no getting them out until its bottom-side up.
*
So Dom drinks until his throat is slick with it, inside and out, shirt a bit damp and clinging at his chest. Empty glass on the bar and waving for another before someone can stop him. More congratulations, this time from the local boys and not-so-local girls. ("From Minneapolis, here for school." "On holiday from Leeds with my sister.") A fresh cigarette from Bean, slick double cheek kiss from Orlando, and the pursed-lips-head-shake combo from Astin. Lovely, that, makes Dom laugh every time, and then Viggo's mouth is at his ear, reminding him, "Don't let it go to your head."
*
And that fucks him off, right there. Viggo, all knowledgeable and clever and so fucking wise, yeah, telling him like he knows what Dom's going through, like he's been through everything before. And Dom's sure he has, but he doesn't know what Dom's going through, he couldn't, couldn't understand what it's like to fucking fall all over yourself with drink and lust and youth and just make a fucking spectacle of yourself and not be able to stop or know what do to next.
Viggo downs his drink, lips shiny with wet, and Dom thinks, "Maybe, maybe he fucking does."
FIN
"I'm so clever, but I'm not very wise." – P. Doherty
Keywords: LOTRPF, Viggo, Dom
Notes: For the fandom_aid charity drive, as requested by my Squee!Mail girlies. Bastards, the whole lot of you! Five 100-word drabbles to get me jump-started.
Summary: "Dom tries to think of words to say to Viggo, but the perfect ones are stuck to the bottom of his glass and there's no getting them out until its bottom-side up."
*
Dom stumbles onstage, buoyed by anonymous hands from the crowd and Bean's distinctive heckling from the bar. Elijah smiles, wicked and sharp, the microphone cord twisted around his wrist. The black cord gleams against Elijah's bright white wrist and Dom shakes his head loose when he realizes that Elijah is offering him the microphone with a "How many have you fucking had, mate?" Must have been too many, because Dom is taking the microphone and telling the crowd to "shut the fuck up, yeah?" and now they're laughing and hollering and he knows what he has to do, doesn't he?
*
Dom finishes out the song, screaming himself raw and feeling more than a bit dizzy with the effort. The crowd goes fucking bonkers for it, don't they, huh, and there's the rush, the rush that got him on stage the first time, and he just lets it take him.
It takes him all the way to the bar, back slaps and kisses and open mouths shouting joy and good-natured derision. He's an entertainer, a showman, "a show-off, more like it," but it's what he does, always the life of the party and more often than not a right fucking mess.
*
Viggo presses a drink into Dom's hand, the glass cool and slick and the beer only a little bit frothy. ("Perfect, mate.") Dom gulps it down, dribble on his chin, sticky fingers pushing against skin and wiping the wet away as he smiles up, up, and up at Viggo.
Viggo, who's not smiling, not frowning, just fucking looking, sipping at his drink like he knows something Dom doesn't. Dom tries to think of words to say to him, but the perfect ones are stuck to the bottom of his glass and there's no getting them out until its bottom-side up.
*
So Dom drinks until his throat is slick with it, inside and out, shirt a bit damp and clinging at his chest. Empty glass on the bar and waving for another before someone can stop him. More congratulations, this time from the local boys and not-so-local girls. ("From Minneapolis, here for school." "On holiday from Leeds with my sister.") A fresh cigarette from Bean, slick double cheek kiss from Orlando, and the pursed-lips-head-shake combo from Astin. Lovely, that, makes Dom laugh every time, and then Viggo's mouth is at his ear, reminding him, "Don't let it go to your head."
*
And that fucks him off, right there. Viggo, all knowledgeable and clever and so fucking wise, yeah, telling him like he knows what Dom's going through, like he's been through everything before. And Dom's sure he has, but he doesn't know what Dom's going through, he couldn't, couldn't understand what it's like to fucking fall all over yourself with drink and lust and youth and just make a fucking spectacle of yourself and not be able to stop or know what do to next.
Viggo downs his drink, lips shiny with wet, and Dom thinks, "Maybe, maybe he fucking does."
FIN
"I'm so clever, but I'm not very wise." – P. Doherty