Opportunity...
Ran out of time and steam tonight, so I've only two letters to post. I promise to do better tomorrow evening.
The lovely caras_galadhon has produced a summary page of the letter exchanges (with links to all letters) here.
To: Cate Blanchett < galadriel@goldenwood.co.nz >
From: Miranda Otto < shieldmaiden@rohan.co.nz >
Subject: News
Cate,
Have a bit more time to write now that Dave has finally fallen asleep. And, no, it's nothing like that. We're at Sean and Viggo's.
Oh, Cate, I'm not entirely sure what's going on, but things have been mad here. Viggo had a bad spell at a rehearsal a few days back. He was really on the edge. So I e-mailed Sean, who, as it turns out, was also in a state. Harry's been fucking with both of them. The details are still terribly murky, but I'm working on that.
Anyhow, Sean flew back from break almost two weeks early, and there was a fight. I'll give you the short version: Sean hit Viggo (In his defense, he was swinging for Harry, who, unfortunately, managed to duck.), knocked him out. Viggo has a concussion. Harry tried to hit Sean, Karl got between them; Harry hit (and broke) Karl's hand.
Don't you wish you were here?
Right now, Karl's at home in a painkiller daze (which is most annoying as I'm certain he knows things). Viggo's sleeping in the bedroom. Dave has crashed on the sofa. Sean is locked in their spare room doing god knows what. It's a bloody disaster.
That's how the kiss thing happened with Dave. It started as a friendly sort of hug and...evolved from there. Hell, it may still be evolving.
I so resent your implication I've been eyeing Dave up. Please. I don't ogle my friends very much. In fact, I'm so far removed from ogling that I have no comments whatsoever about Sean's ass or Viggo's shoulders or Karl's hands. No comments at all.
Ah, I think that I'd best try to catch a bit of sleep myself. Hmm, I could either share space with Viggo, Sean, or Dave. Decisions. Decisions. What's a girl to do?
'Night,
Miranda
I woke up under the quilt. Sean's jacket was gone. Once I opened my eyes, I saw it folded over the chair in typical Sean style. Why'd he take it away? Where the hell is he? Why didn't he stay?
I still feel a little off, like I'm floating loose inside my skin instead of being anchored in place, but at least, my head is clear. Most of the pain has shifted to my jaw, which is throbbing. But I'm hungry. Thirsty. I have to venture forth for nourishment and to take a piss.
[...]
I'm back. Someone got danishes from The Bean. The fruit ones were all gone, but there were some cream cheese left. I'll seize any victory, no matter how small, right now. I took the maximum dose of ibuprofen. Hope it goes straight to my jaw.
I found Dave and Miranda asleep on the sofa. Together. Dave playing the gentleman, sleeping on the outside edge, back to the room. Letting Miranda have the safer spot. One of his legs is thrown over hers, and he's curled around her, has a bemused expression on his face. He'd better hope he wakes up first or things could be a bit...hard awkward between them.
They're lovely together. I want to photograph them, but there's only blank-and-white film in the camera, and I'd like them in color. All those warm golds and creams, the dustings of rose and peach. I wonder if they would pose nude for me.
I also found Sean asleep in the spare room. I could hear him snoring as I passed the door. Why's he in there? The mattress is too hard, and the pillows are too soft. The bed is too small. Not comfy. Why won't he come into our room? Is it because he hit me?
My head's starting to hurt again. I suspect that the answer to that question is going to turn out to be one of those things that you can only understand if you're British.
Still, I had to look in on him just to be sure.
His face. Mother of god, I look picture perfect compared to him. Harry did that to him. I know it. I hope Harry looks ten times worse.
[...]
Just reread some of Sean's letters. The ones about the poison ivy and missed opportunities. All I know is that after six weeks of sleeping alone, I'm not going to miss the opportunity to sleep next to my lover, even if it means moving to the uncomfortable bed.
The lovely caras_galadhon has produced a summary page of the letter exchanges (with links to all letters) here.
To: Cate Blanchett < galadriel@goldenwood.co.nz >
From: Miranda Otto < shieldmaiden@rohan.co.nz >
Subject: News
Cate,
Have a bit more time to write now that Dave has finally fallen asleep. And, no, it's nothing like that. We're at Sean and Viggo's.
Oh, Cate, I'm not entirely sure what's going on, but things have been mad here. Viggo had a bad spell at a rehearsal a few days back. He was really on the edge. So I e-mailed Sean, who, as it turns out, was also in a state. Harry's been fucking with both of them. The details are still terribly murky, but I'm working on that.
Anyhow, Sean flew back from break almost two weeks early, and there was a fight. I'll give you the short version: Sean hit Viggo (In his defense, he was swinging for Harry, who, unfortunately, managed to duck.), knocked him out. Viggo has a concussion. Harry tried to hit Sean, Karl got between them; Harry hit (and broke) Karl's hand.
Don't you wish you were here?
Right now, Karl's at home in a painkiller daze (which is most annoying as I'm certain he knows things). Viggo's sleeping in the bedroom. Dave has crashed on the sofa. Sean is locked in their spare room doing god knows what. It's a bloody disaster.
That's how the kiss thing happened with Dave. It started as a friendly sort of hug and...evolved from there. Hell, it may still be evolving.
I so resent your implication I've been eyeing Dave up. Please. I don't ogle my friends very much. In fact, I'm so far removed from ogling that I have no comments whatsoever about Sean's ass or Viggo's shoulders or Karl's hands. No comments at all.
Ah, I think that I'd best try to catch a bit of sleep myself. Hmm, I could either share space with Viggo, Sean, or Dave. Decisions. Decisions. What's a girl to do?
'Night,
Miranda
I woke up under the quilt. Sean's jacket was gone. Once I opened my eyes, I saw it folded over the chair in typical Sean style. Why'd he take it away? Where the hell is he? Why didn't he stay?
I still feel a little off, like I'm floating loose inside my skin instead of being anchored in place, but at least, my head is clear. Most of the pain has shifted to my jaw, which is throbbing. But I'm hungry. Thirsty. I have to venture forth for nourishment and to take a piss.
[...]
I'm back. Someone got danishes from The Bean. The fruit ones were all gone, but there were some cream cheese left. I'll seize any victory, no matter how small, right now. I took the maximum dose of ibuprofen. Hope it goes straight to my jaw.
I found Dave and Miranda asleep on the sofa. Together. Dave playing the gentleman, sleeping on the outside edge, back to the room. Letting Miranda have the safer spot. One of his legs is thrown over hers, and he's curled around her, has a bemused expression on his face. He'd better hope he wakes up first or things could be a bit...hard awkward between them.
They're lovely together. I want to photograph them, but there's only blank-and-white film in the camera, and I'd like them in color. All those warm golds and creams, the dustings of rose and peach. I wonder if they would pose nude for me.
I also found Sean asleep in the spare room. I could hear him snoring as I passed the door. Why's he in there? The mattress is too hard, and the pillows are too soft. The bed is too small. Not comfy. Why won't he come into our room? Is it because he hit me?
My head's starting to hurt again. I suspect that the answer to that question is going to turn out to be one of those things that you can only understand if you're British.
Still, I had to look in on him just to be sure.
His face. Mother of god, I look picture perfect compared to him. Harry did that to him. I know it. I hope Harry looks ten times worse.
[...]
Just reread some of Sean's letters. The ones about the poison ivy and missed opportunities. All I know is that after six weeks of sleeping alone, I'm not going to miss the opportunity to sleep next to my lover, even if it means moving to the uncomfortable bed.