fellowshippers | (FIC) No Sleep

For the contrelamorte prostitution challenge

No Sleep

Disclaimer:[Bad username or unknown identity: Don't own, Don't sue. I only own the prose. People own themselves.]

Warning:[Bad username or unknown identity: Slightly angsty. Introspective musings]

Pairing: [Bad username or unknown identity: Orlando Bloom/Sean Bean]

[Bad username or unknown identity: ]

sean

Sean would watch everything Orlando did.

Every film, every play.

He didn't miss a thing.

Everyone thought it was simple devotion. Or an older actor wanting to guide a younger one in his craft.

He was glad that they all thought that. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to hide the truth.

It was almost as exhausting as if he really were analyzing it for a better purpose.

But the reason why he was making such an effort was simply because of wonder.

Not wonder at how Orlando pursued his career, but rather wonder at how the boy never seemed to realize that he was doing little better than whoring himself to the world.

Sean often wondered how he was fine with it. Playing at a role, hiding nothing of himself for millions of people that would love to do nothing more than tear him once he had reached the sun.

They would crow, once he flew too high, like Icarus. He was sure of it.

So he watched and admired how every gesture was flawlessly timed to give the most reacting. How every glance seemed to make those dark, expressive eyes smoulder just so, all the while wondering when it would stop being an act and become reality.

Orlando

They all assumed he didn’t know why he kept getting his roles.

He wasn’t that dense. He knew it was the looks that every director loved to cash in on.

His eyes, his mouth, his cheekbones.

He snorted slightly as he looked at himself in the mirror.

His looks were all they wanted.

His looks were all that paid the rent and kept him in luxury and got him hounded by the press and hormonal teenage girls that had no outlet for their emotions at that point.

He wasn’t an actor to them. He was more like a courtesan who had her season and was cast aside into the gutter with not even a last look.

He had had hopes before, of being respected for his work, but as the roles and scripts all came in, wanting the same thing from him; it had all faded away.

He looked down and cradled the blade in his hand, gently caressing the blade to bring out the blood to his fingertips.

Perhaps it was time to end his season.

Before he was tossed out with the trash.

Sean would understand.

He was sure of it.

Orlando took a deep breath and lifted the blade.

“Exeunt” he whispered before the blade slashed.

End.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

despair is the worst. arrogance isn't much better. ow ow ow...
what lovely strong sharp writing.

*nods* yeah. I guess I wrote thsi when I was just thinking about prostitution and the metaphorical ways one can engage in it and this was written to explore the darker side of it, I suppose.

Glad you liked it.

(FIC) No Sleep

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