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fellowshippers2004-12-03 11:32 pm
sophrosyne31.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-12-03 11:32 pm
Hobbledehoy, Dom/Orlando by Sophrosyne
Title: Hobbledehoy
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sophrosyne31
Pairing: Dom/Orlando
Rating: R
Disclaimer: this is all fiction, not truth
Feedback: is lovely, thank you
Note on the title: a 'hobbledehoy' is a young man, caught between boyhood and manhood.
A/N: a bit angsty to be a gift, but this is for everyone who's been so kind to me lately. I love you all.
When Dom meets Orlando for the first time, he feels something grate in his veins. Sweet and scouring.
Metal filings, swivelling to face north. Orlando.
It's all Dom can do to keep his balance.
::
“So you’re the other hobbit,” said Orlando, that day, and though he was sitting down as Dom was walked up to meet him, he seemed so tall that Dom unconsciously straightened his back. Orlando smiled up at him, and then rose to shake his hand, with an earnest friendliness that made Dom shake back with a couple of extra pumps and a big grin. To cover the strangeness he felt in his bones.
“I’m the main hobbit,” Dom said, as if bashfully, and glanced across smiling at Elijah, and said, “I know it’s not in the script. But it’s a subtext thing.”
“Right,” said Orlando, “Right,” and the way he smiled made Dom feel that this person was some kind of magnetic storm, though he looked so innocuous, because Dom could feel something gathering under his skin, pulling.
::
Orlando and Dom and the rest of the hobbits clot together from the early days. They're far from home, far from friends, family, pets, familiar cars, their favourite pillows, their normal foods. They pretend they're on camp; they assemble the equipment of friendship. Pubs, Chinese takeaways, girls to whisper about, nights watching porn. The routine sinks into place quickly.
They all feel better, taking care of Elijah. He's preternaturally self-possessed on the set, making pals with all the crew, staking his spot to nap in amid the cables and lighting stands, beloved by even the carpenters. But he blushes and speaks softly at the pub. He spends time talking with Ian, with Sean; Dom wonders if he feels more comfortable with older men.
Dom and Billy engage him with stupid jokes, taunting him about his height, his lack of stubble, his awful accent. He's thrown at first, staggers, then hitches his personality into place. Learns to give shit with the rest of them. They grin at Elijah's pretty mouth, its broad smile, emitting sharp British insults. Dom receives every 'cunt' with a smirk, and returns a different obscenity with his tongue. He makes up slang just for Elijah.
Sean Astin is harder work. The man won't shut up, won't cease yippeting on about various cameras, helicopters, directorial techniques. His earnest fervour for everything is impossible to crush, and Dom likes an enthusiast. But Sean doesn’t come to the pub that often, frowns on too much swearing, holds his booze too well. Dom finds himself a little cruel when Sean's around.
He thanks god for Billy. Ten years older and gifted with the wit of a raconteur and the giggle of a twelve year old. A serene twelve year old. Billy only has to quirk the corner of his mouth at some ridiculous comment by one of the Americans and Dom feels like he's back in the corner of the classroom with his mate Dennis. Billy's bright and fast and his rhythm is almost the same as Dom's. Dom breathes more slowly when Bill's around.
Orlando makes Dom nervous. No, not nervous; resentful. Uneased. A needle under his skin.
::
There are nights at the pub when Dom thinks he'll never need another family, another group of friends, another home. He doesn't miss Manchester; he doesn’t think of his old girlfriends. There's nothing outside of this, this shelter, pinned down at every corner and edge by mates as daft as himself. The work arches over them all, the great chance of their lives, something magical and inspiring. Dom reckons he's becoming a man, now.
From being caught between a boy's rashness and a man's solidity, Dom detects the clicks, every now and then, into something more firmly limned with substance. The time Elijah started crying in the car, brokenly homesick, and Dom spoke to him quietly, scrumpling his hair, thinking 'What would Viggo say here?' and seeing Viggo later, meeting his quizzical glance at Elijah's swollen eyes with steadiness and silence. The day when Billy had gone very white in the middle of a conversation about PJ's kids, driving the car, thrumming with what Dom suddenly realised was anger, and Dom hadn't flared up in affront, hadn't recoiled, hadn't cut in with the sarcasm, and waited until Billy told him that Margaret had had to go to their parents' grave alone this year, and he was sick about it, sick to the point of rage.
Other times, when they've been pushed for 10 hours of filming, and the fake ears are melting stickily and the wind's been grating in his eyes for hours and he's so tired he's sweating even in the cold, tired to the point of crying for nothing, and he's looked across at the others, sunk sullenly against some camera cases, and unstuck his grim mouth to say, "Tig!"
And the times when he's learned there's some times when it's best to say nothing at all.
::
Dom's scraping a thumb over his stubble, and thinking it feels stubblier these days, coarser, when Orlando looks over from where he's splayed on the couch, thighs wide. Billy and Elijah are setting up the video, bickering over which film to watch first. It's Sunday, porn and barbeque night, and Elijah, who was filming this morning, has a slightly thin note in his voice. They're all pretty heavy on the couches by this hour, as twilight soaks in through the windows and the beer empties are clustered on the table.
Orlando says, "This movie must be good. It hasn't even started and I've got a hard-on already." Dom looks down, reflexively, at Orlando's crotch and sees the denim has padded out. There's something that prickles in his guts every time he sees this happen, sees Orlando's body respond to something. Orlando's a flirt alright, twinkles at all the girls, but there's no time for any of the cast to gallivant. They're all too fucked all the time. Hence the porn. It's nice to know he's not the only one who swells easily these days. It's nice to take care of it all together. Of course they keep it clean. When the movie starts they'll all shove hands quietly inside their jeans; the unspoken rule is that nothing's unzipped.
Dom's creepy little head can't help imagining what they look like, the others. He's a curious guy; he likes projecting, gathering information, observing, assimilating. He's great at doing impressions; where do they think it comes from? He long since worked out that if he still liked the thought of a guy after he'd imagined his cock, he'd like drinking with him too. Or the thought of his face, coming. Dom sometimes percolates with these kind of tangential analyses. For all that they're useful. If he was getting any, he thinks, chafing his bristly chin hard, this wouldn’t be a problem.
He's seen the other guys come, of course, or rather, he's heard their breath hitch and sigh, heard friction subside into silence, while they all keep their eyes hotly on the screen. Billy's a gasper, though quietly, little sharp intakes of breath, threaded with a hint of stifled voice. Elijah clenches his teeth—Dom can hear it in the way he hums—and he breaks with a rip in the smooth buzz of sound, and then, always, a shamefaced giggle into the careful silence.
Orlando's not so bashful. He'll sprawl there, his leg bumping at the person next to him, and talk to himself in a low voice. "Yeah, yeah, man, yeah, that's it, oh. Oh." For some reason Dom hates this. It interrupts his own rhythm, his concentration; he wonders who the hell Orlando's thinking of, who he thinks is listening. Dom likes to sit on the other couch, and wait till Orlando's blown before he tugs at his own cock hard, yanking pleasure out of him, fierce short pulls, Orlando's whispers still in his head. His eyes on the tv, on the juddering, moaning, made-up figures there. Wondering what Orlando's cock looks like.
Now Dom looks away from Orlando's crotch where there’s something hard and long pressing against the fabric. He grunts and sips his beer as Elijah walks over and collapses on the cushions beside him.
"Elijah. Come over here, man," Orlando says.
Dom catches Billy's eye as Elijah hefts himself up again and over to Orlando. Billy gives him the 'sometimes there's nothing to say' wry look, and settles in next to Dom. He holds out the remote and presses Play.
::
It's six months in, and they're starting to stagger under the fatigue, when Orlando comes striding into the hobbit trailer one afternoon. The sun outside is sweet, a thin angle of it sneaking in as he opens the door. They're wrapping early, and the plan is to drive a half-hour to the coast from this location, lie on some sand, drink some beers, let the sun bleed through their skin.
Orlando lets the door slam behind him and says, "We're going to the pub. Viggo and me. We're all going."
"See, that's where you're getting it wrong. " says Billy, holding his head carefully still while the ears are prised off. "Who's the 'we', white man?"
"You lot."
"Not a chance. There's some dirty sand itching to get into my undies out there. We've got a crappy car, we've got a flowered umbrella, we've got stinky feet need washing." Dom runs his hands through his hair newly bared from the wig. "I've got a date with a sea urchin. Tell that Viggo to try exploring nature sometime."
"So you're not up for it?" Orlando's dense like a foam mattress. Bubbles and bounce. There's not a lot of irony going in that sleek head. Not even the Mohawk helps.
"Get Viggo. Get beer. Come with us. There's your plan for you, cunt," says Elijah. He still hasn't quite figured out where the more scatalogical terms of endearment fit in. Dom loves the quiet delight on Elijah's face every time he gets to say that word.
"Cunt, hey? You little rotter. I'll tell Dad."
"Just get him," says Dom. "We're gone in half an hour."
Orlando goes, and Dom stops fiddling with his ring.
The beach, when the car jigs down the sandy road to the grass, is a pale strip of yellow and a pale strip of silvery blue. There are reeds in the sand, and Dom's bare feet silk over them as they walk down to the water, low and quiet.
It hasn't taken long to get drunk. Lunch was several hours ago. Now the beer bottle is gritty with sand in Dom's hand, and his feet tingle in the repetitive sluice of the shallows. The sunlight in his eyes makes the world go blockish, slabs of colour flitting in his vision, flares of gorgeousness. He sways, contentedly, from side to side; he's drunk enough to not connect Elijah giggling behind him with himself. Billy says something low and Dom's happy to hear his voice.
A heavy hand claps itself on his back and the flares jolt. He turns and there's orange. The block of colour clears; it's Orlando. He's stumbling in the waves, the hand tensing on Dom's muscles; he steadies.
"Bloody nice, eh."
Dom wonders when Orlando took up the Kiwi phrasing. It's so typical of him; he's a morpher. Changes to please his surroundings. Mark of the newbie. Dom remembers that, remembers when he got his first job, acting all the time. I'm an actor, I'm a chameleon, all that shite. Then he realised it was cleverer to act himself. Dominic, maestro of impressions, master of impersonating himself. Dom takes his talent out for show, not in ignorance. It's a careful thing, however generously he shares it.
The hand on his back has gone, and there's just the hint of coolness where the sweat's warmed, then caught the breeze again.
"Elijah's pissed. Listen to him! These kids," offers Orlando, since Dom's still just squinting into the dazzle of the water. The light is more frail now, diffused as the sun enters a delicate violet haze on the horizon.
"Speak for yourself."
Orlando's glowing against the ashy blue of the water when Dom turns to look at him. There are gleams, elegant inscriptions of light, all along the lines of his limbs, his bared chest, as if he's oiled. He's settled his feet in the soft sand beneath the water, hips forward, canted and comfortable. Humming a tune. A stupid smile on his face.
The rust in Dom's blood shivers back into remembrance. Spins towards beauty. It's heavy in his veins, and the alcohol swells in his head as the sun fills it.
Dom reaches out a hand.
The instant his fingers touch Orlando's cheek there's a shock. He doesn't really know how this has happened. Orlando's cheek is too real.
Dom's hand flinches away, burned by sobriety, and Orlando jerks. Dom stumbles abruptly on the nubby ridges that have formed beneath his feet.
"Tide's coming in," says Orlando, already turning, still golden, face in shadow, to stagger back to shore.
::
They've been filming for months but there's always the training. It's not like hobbits have a lot of hacking and slashing to do, but Dom likes the discipline, the careful acceleration of intent into action. Sword ripping the air, the jab, the parry. Asserting your way into someone's space, stroke by stroke, opening up the air in front of you. Sometimes he goes down to the gym to find a stuntie practising, and spars with him or her.
Tonight he's gone hard, finding the sting in his muscles soothing even after a long morning on the Phoney Pony, jerking at false reins. The bout went on a long time; Dom losing ground, his arms like wet cement. Finally the stuntie calls off, pleading an early start ("You've got to be kidding. Try latex feet at 5am."), and Dom cleans up, then heads to the pub. Billy said he'd be there for a while.
When Dom walks in the air closes around him warm as dirty dishwater. The place is full, and people are knotted around the room in clusters, untidily. The music's loud, rackety over the clatter of voices. Dom goes and gets himself a drink, finds Billy at a table scattered with beer mats and bottles. Orlando's there too. Dom's not pleased to see him. He's been hearing about Orlando at the gym: how quick he is, what a natural, what a champ with the bow and sword. He's had enough Orlando for now. He doesn't want charm tonight.
They're laughing as Dom comes up.
"You'll never believe what this twat is telling me, Dom," says Billy, giggling still. "He's decided to kidnap Viggo. He's going to snatch him! He says Viggo smells, and you know how he's so rugged and independent, all that camping, so Orli's going to book him into a spa resort and have him buffed. By force if necessary. Down to his dainty toenails." Billy slurps down some beer and pokes Orlando, who's choking with laughter.
"Don't you think he'd appreciate it?" Orlando says after a moment, grinning and gurgling still.
"I can think of other uses you might put Viggo to," Dom says, sitting down.
"Well, yes," says Orlando. "Personal butler, bootscrubber, resident, what's the word, resident wise old man – "
"Sage," Dom supplies. Arsewiper, he thinks. Babysitter.
They drink their beers. Dom stretches, catches himself. His arm's strained, there's a thorough dull ache all through his muscles. He kneads one biceps gingerly. Orlando grabs at it. His strong fingers jab pain into Dom.
"Fuck off!" Dom flings his arm out of reach. Rust grinds in his veins, sings angrily against his skin.
"Bit sore, are we? Pooncy hobbits. No stamina."
"Fucking sore, yes, and fuck you very much too." Dom's not sure why he's so angry, he realises, but there's something he hates about being jabbed. "You arse."
"I was just – "
"Just keeping your fucking hands away from me. That's what."
Orlando has a genuinely shocked look on his face. Billy's keeping quiet.
"Can you not just sit there like a mate? You're always so bloody quick to dash in and be the hero." Dom realises as he's ranting that none of this makes sense. Who was being a hero? But he's stiff and tired and at this moment he hates Orlando's guts and the rest of his easy, golden, newbie swagger. He hates the way Orlando's relaxed again now and slung an arm over the back of his chair, watching him with that loose, confident smile. Orlando always knows everyone loves him. Dom's body is spitted through with the electric relief of being an arsehole. He stands up, and his stance is that of a lad from Stockport. Tense at the stomach, broad in the shoulders.
"Dom." Billy stands up, is wise enough not to touch him, speaks loudly. "Dom, go home, mate, and get some rest. Orlando's fine, it's time to go. We'll see you tomorrow."
Dom looks at Orlando, who replies with a gaze that surprises him: he's serious, a little uneasy. His dark eyes are childishly soft in the dim light. His skin looks raw and young, suddenly. He's looking up at Dom in something like unhappiness.
"Hey, man, I'm –"
Dom turns and walks out. The carpark is bleak with concrete under amber lights, and as he gets into his car he suddenly feels much the same way.
::
The next night, the air is nitrous and thick. All afternoon the trees have been greener, the gleams on surfaces more hazy. There's tenseness in the air, in the pauses between rough, sudden beat-ups of the wind, as Dom and Orlando sit on Orlando's verandah drinking beer.
"Wish it would hit, this storm," remarks Orlando. "I love big weather. Makes me want to get naked and run for miles."
"You fucking exhibitionist." It comes out savage. Dom's still wondering why he's over here. Orlando'd invited him, alone, and they've been making a kind of false ease, drinking too fast, slug after slug, chatting awkwardly about filming and watching the wind in the trees across the road. Dom's starting to get bored, and think of home, or Elijah's, or Billy's brightness.
"Dom. What the fuck is your problem?"
Orlando sits there, his long limbs angled, his expression sharp and beautiful at the same time. The bones of his face are strong in the verandah light; his mouth has an insolence Dom hasn't seen before. His long hands grip on his knees.
"You."
"Oh yeah. Me. Okay, let’s hear it. There's something you don't like?"
Dom tips his bottle and lets the fizzy liquid slide into his mouth. He puts the glass on the boards next to his chair and looks at Orlando straight. He feels blood bloom up in his cheeks.
"You, you've taken it all up, haven't you. All the newness, all the zap. Some fucking enfant terrible. It's fucking vulgar, is what it is."
Orlando’s whole body becomes long lines of defensiveness. Lean and tight, he leans forward.
“Listen, man, I’ve no fucking idea what your problem is. Is it that you’re not playing with the big boys enough? Little hobbit? Get over it, man. I just want to hang, you know—enjoy. Fucking enjoy, Dom, can’t you?”
Dom is full of rage, bright with it, it feels so good to be angry, and he’d like to just grab Orlando by the head and smash it—wrap its smugness in his arms—do something violent and satisfying and—
—suddenly he’s aware that the prickling in his skin is something else.
The sensation of drag is not anger.
His hand comes out, grasps Orlando’s where it lies on Orlando’s thigh, and squeezes it tightly. As tightly as he can. Orlando’s hand struggles a moment, then maybe Orlando realises that Dom’s not going to break his fingers, and the two hands entwine, tight tight tight.
Dom and Orlando look at their hands. Sinews and long fingers and smooth skin, one wrapped over the other, and there’s a pause and then the wind bashes over them roughly and drops again to stillness; they look up at each other.
“Is that it?” says Orlando.
Dom just stares at him. His fingers clench in a little more, and then Orlando clenches back, and Dom leans over and cups Orlando’s head with his other hand, and pulls it forward.
Unfamiliar, the feeling of Orlando’s wide mouth against his, clumsily jarring, and then Orlando’s lips, softer than Dom expected, and the shocking warm wetness of a tongue that dissolves all the boundaries of Dom’s mouth. The taste of beer and milky nervousness and the taste of a man Dom wants. He thrusts his own tongue in, shoves it into the wetness, and there’s the press of Orlando’s hand against the back of Dom’s head and Orlando’s lips and stubble and teeth all slipping together silkily against him as Dom kisses and kisses and kisses Orlando.
Orlando breaks away, leaving the taste of him on Dom’s still-open lips. He just looks at Dom, for a moment. His eyes are soft, and to Dom he hasn’t gone back to being Orlando yet. He’s the man Dom’s kissing.
“You’re an idiot, Dom,” says Orlando.
He gets up, stretches, and Dom can’t take his eyes off the slender waist in front of his face, the skin shimmering there for a moment, and then Orlando lowers his arms and gives Dom a look—a look which somehow combines a smile with something exasperated and something challenging—and he walks into the house.
Dom sits there, his hands on the wooden arms of his deck chair, his thumbs chafing the rough surfaces, while the wind buffets up and blows in his face and he opens his mouth to it. The air is warm in his mouth, and drying, but Dom wishes the rain would come.
Orlando, what did he want, what’s he doing—Dom sees a shadow flicker over the verandah, from Orlando moving inside behind the window that spills light out into the dark, and hears Orlando put music on—Orlando, what was that?
Dom, what are you doing?
He stands abruptly and his body feels stiff, as if he’s been asleep in an awkward position. He’s standing and he’s going to go inside and see Orlando, but for a moment he doesn’t do anything, and the drag in his veins is uncomfortable. He’s being pulled, and Dom doesn’t always like that. Dom likes to be the one who stands still and pulls people to him. Or at least that’s what he’s always thought. It seemed important, once.
In him, he finds his direction, and it clicks into place, just like that. North.
He bends, takes up his bottle of beer, has a long slug of the tepid liquid, rinses the taste of Orlando from his tongue; blinks; and walks inside.
Orlando’s lying on the couch, in soft light, listening to something dark and gentle. He opens his eyes lazily and gazes at Dom standing beside him.
“Do you want me to go?” says Dom.
“Do I want you to go?” Orlando repeats, slow smile on his face. “Do you think you should?”
Sometimes, Dom’s learned, it’s better to say nothing at all. So he simply bends and takes Orlando’s head in his hands and kisses him. The kiss is hard and thorough and says a lot of things. It says No.
And it says Yes. Yes.
And Orlando’s mouth, on Dom’s, makes shape after shape, and all of them are a challenge.
Author:
sophrosyne31Pairing: Dom/Orlando
Rating: R
Disclaimer: this is all fiction, not truth
Feedback: is lovely, thank you
Note on the title: a 'hobbledehoy' is a young man, caught between boyhood and manhood.
A/N: a bit angsty to be a gift, but this is for everyone who's been so kind to me lately. I love you all.
When Dom meets Orlando for the first time, he feels something grate in his veins. Sweet and scouring.
Metal filings, swivelling to face north. Orlando.
It's all Dom can do to keep his balance.
::
“So you’re the other hobbit,” said Orlando, that day, and though he was sitting down as Dom was walked up to meet him, he seemed so tall that Dom unconsciously straightened his back. Orlando smiled up at him, and then rose to shake his hand, with an earnest friendliness that made Dom shake back with a couple of extra pumps and a big grin. To cover the strangeness he felt in his bones.
“I’m the main hobbit,” Dom said, as if bashfully, and glanced across smiling at Elijah, and said, “I know it’s not in the script. But it’s a subtext thing.”
“Right,” said Orlando, “Right,” and the way he smiled made Dom feel that this person was some kind of magnetic storm, though he looked so innocuous, because Dom could feel something gathering under his skin, pulling.
::
Orlando and Dom and the rest of the hobbits clot together from the early days. They're far from home, far from friends, family, pets, familiar cars, their favourite pillows, their normal foods. They pretend they're on camp; they assemble the equipment of friendship. Pubs, Chinese takeaways, girls to whisper about, nights watching porn. The routine sinks into place quickly.
They all feel better, taking care of Elijah. He's preternaturally self-possessed on the set, making pals with all the crew, staking his spot to nap in amid the cables and lighting stands, beloved by even the carpenters. But he blushes and speaks softly at the pub. He spends time talking with Ian, with Sean; Dom wonders if he feels more comfortable with older men.
Dom and Billy engage him with stupid jokes, taunting him about his height, his lack of stubble, his awful accent. He's thrown at first, staggers, then hitches his personality into place. Learns to give shit with the rest of them. They grin at Elijah's pretty mouth, its broad smile, emitting sharp British insults. Dom receives every 'cunt' with a smirk, and returns a different obscenity with his tongue. He makes up slang just for Elijah.
Sean Astin is harder work. The man won't shut up, won't cease yippeting on about various cameras, helicopters, directorial techniques. His earnest fervour for everything is impossible to crush, and Dom likes an enthusiast. But Sean doesn’t come to the pub that often, frowns on too much swearing, holds his booze too well. Dom finds himself a little cruel when Sean's around.
He thanks god for Billy. Ten years older and gifted with the wit of a raconteur and the giggle of a twelve year old. A serene twelve year old. Billy only has to quirk the corner of his mouth at some ridiculous comment by one of the Americans and Dom feels like he's back in the corner of the classroom with his mate Dennis. Billy's bright and fast and his rhythm is almost the same as Dom's. Dom breathes more slowly when Bill's around.
Orlando makes Dom nervous. No, not nervous; resentful. Uneased. A needle under his skin.
::
There are nights at the pub when Dom thinks he'll never need another family, another group of friends, another home. He doesn't miss Manchester; he doesn’t think of his old girlfriends. There's nothing outside of this, this shelter, pinned down at every corner and edge by mates as daft as himself. The work arches over them all, the great chance of their lives, something magical and inspiring. Dom reckons he's becoming a man, now.
From being caught between a boy's rashness and a man's solidity, Dom detects the clicks, every now and then, into something more firmly limned with substance. The time Elijah started crying in the car, brokenly homesick, and Dom spoke to him quietly, scrumpling his hair, thinking 'What would Viggo say here?' and seeing Viggo later, meeting his quizzical glance at Elijah's swollen eyes with steadiness and silence. The day when Billy had gone very white in the middle of a conversation about PJ's kids, driving the car, thrumming with what Dom suddenly realised was anger, and Dom hadn't flared up in affront, hadn't recoiled, hadn't cut in with the sarcasm, and waited until Billy told him that Margaret had had to go to their parents' grave alone this year, and he was sick about it, sick to the point of rage.
Other times, when they've been pushed for 10 hours of filming, and the fake ears are melting stickily and the wind's been grating in his eyes for hours and he's so tired he's sweating even in the cold, tired to the point of crying for nothing, and he's looked across at the others, sunk sullenly against some camera cases, and unstuck his grim mouth to say, "Tig!"
And the times when he's learned there's some times when it's best to say nothing at all.
::
Dom's scraping a thumb over his stubble, and thinking it feels stubblier these days, coarser, when Orlando looks over from where he's splayed on the couch, thighs wide. Billy and Elijah are setting up the video, bickering over which film to watch first. It's Sunday, porn and barbeque night, and Elijah, who was filming this morning, has a slightly thin note in his voice. They're all pretty heavy on the couches by this hour, as twilight soaks in through the windows and the beer empties are clustered on the table.
Orlando says, "This movie must be good. It hasn't even started and I've got a hard-on already." Dom looks down, reflexively, at Orlando's crotch and sees the denim has padded out. There's something that prickles in his guts every time he sees this happen, sees Orlando's body respond to something. Orlando's a flirt alright, twinkles at all the girls, but there's no time for any of the cast to gallivant. They're all too fucked all the time. Hence the porn. It's nice to know he's not the only one who swells easily these days. It's nice to take care of it all together. Of course they keep it clean. When the movie starts they'll all shove hands quietly inside their jeans; the unspoken rule is that nothing's unzipped.
Dom's creepy little head can't help imagining what they look like, the others. He's a curious guy; he likes projecting, gathering information, observing, assimilating. He's great at doing impressions; where do they think it comes from? He long since worked out that if he still liked the thought of a guy after he'd imagined his cock, he'd like drinking with him too. Or the thought of his face, coming. Dom sometimes percolates with these kind of tangential analyses. For all that they're useful. If he was getting any, he thinks, chafing his bristly chin hard, this wouldn’t be a problem.
He's seen the other guys come, of course, or rather, he's heard their breath hitch and sigh, heard friction subside into silence, while they all keep their eyes hotly on the screen. Billy's a gasper, though quietly, little sharp intakes of breath, threaded with a hint of stifled voice. Elijah clenches his teeth—Dom can hear it in the way he hums—and he breaks with a rip in the smooth buzz of sound, and then, always, a shamefaced giggle into the careful silence.
Orlando's not so bashful. He'll sprawl there, his leg bumping at the person next to him, and talk to himself in a low voice. "Yeah, yeah, man, yeah, that's it, oh. Oh." For some reason Dom hates this. It interrupts his own rhythm, his concentration; he wonders who the hell Orlando's thinking of, who he thinks is listening. Dom likes to sit on the other couch, and wait till Orlando's blown before he tugs at his own cock hard, yanking pleasure out of him, fierce short pulls, Orlando's whispers still in his head. His eyes on the tv, on the juddering, moaning, made-up figures there. Wondering what Orlando's cock looks like.
Now Dom looks away from Orlando's crotch where there’s something hard and long pressing against the fabric. He grunts and sips his beer as Elijah walks over and collapses on the cushions beside him.
"Elijah. Come over here, man," Orlando says.
Dom catches Billy's eye as Elijah hefts himself up again and over to Orlando. Billy gives him the 'sometimes there's nothing to say' wry look, and settles in next to Dom. He holds out the remote and presses Play.
::
It's six months in, and they're starting to stagger under the fatigue, when Orlando comes striding into the hobbit trailer one afternoon. The sun outside is sweet, a thin angle of it sneaking in as he opens the door. They're wrapping early, and the plan is to drive a half-hour to the coast from this location, lie on some sand, drink some beers, let the sun bleed through their skin.
Orlando lets the door slam behind him and says, "We're going to the pub. Viggo and me. We're all going."
"See, that's where you're getting it wrong. " says Billy, holding his head carefully still while the ears are prised off. "Who's the 'we', white man?"
"You lot."
"Not a chance. There's some dirty sand itching to get into my undies out there. We've got a crappy car, we've got a flowered umbrella, we've got stinky feet need washing." Dom runs his hands through his hair newly bared from the wig. "I've got a date with a sea urchin. Tell that Viggo to try exploring nature sometime."
"So you're not up for it?" Orlando's dense like a foam mattress. Bubbles and bounce. There's not a lot of irony going in that sleek head. Not even the Mohawk helps.
"Get Viggo. Get beer. Come with us. There's your plan for you, cunt," says Elijah. He still hasn't quite figured out where the more scatalogical terms of endearment fit in. Dom loves the quiet delight on Elijah's face every time he gets to say that word.
"Cunt, hey? You little rotter. I'll tell Dad."
"Just get him," says Dom. "We're gone in half an hour."
Orlando goes, and Dom stops fiddling with his ring.
The beach, when the car jigs down the sandy road to the grass, is a pale strip of yellow and a pale strip of silvery blue. There are reeds in the sand, and Dom's bare feet silk over them as they walk down to the water, low and quiet.
It hasn't taken long to get drunk. Lunch was several hours ago. Now the beer bottle is gritty with sand in Dom's hand, and his feet tingle in the repetitive sluice of the shallows. The sunlight in his eyes makes the world go blockish, slabs of colour flitting in his vision, flares of gorgeousness. He sways, contentedly, from side to side; he's drunk enough to not connect Elijah giggling behind him with himself. Billy says something low and Dom's happy to hear his voice.
A heavy hand claps itself on his back and the flares jolt. He turns and there's orange. The block of colour clears; it's Orlando. He's stumbling in the waves, the hand tensing on Dom's muscles; he steadies.
"Bloody nice, eh."
Dom wonders when Orlando took up the Kiwi phrasing. It's so typical of him; he's a morpher. Changes to please his surroundings. Mark of the newbie. Dom remembers that, remembers when he got his first job, acting all the time. I'm an actor, I'm a chameleon, all that shite. Then he realised it was cleverer to act himself. Dominic, maestro of impressions, master of impersonating himself. Dom takes his talent out for show, not in ignorance. It's a careful thing, however generously he shares it.
The hand on his back has gone, and there's just the hint of coolness where the sweat's warmed, then caught the breeze again.
"Elijah's pissed. Listen to him! These kids," offers Orlando, since Dom's still just squinting into the dazzle of the water. The light is more frail now, diffused as the sun enters a delicate violet haze on the horizon.
"Speak for yourself."
Orlando's glowing against the ashy blue of the water when Dom turns to look at him. There are gleams, elegant inscriptions of light, all along the lines of his limbs, his bared chest, as if he's oiled. He's settled his feet in the soft sand beneath the water, hips forward, canted and comfortable. Humming a tune. A stupid smile on his face.
The rust in Dom's blood shivers back into remembrance. Spins towards beauty. It's heavy in his veins, and the alcohol swells in his head as the sun fills it.
Dom reaches out a hand.
The instant his fingers touch Orlando's cheek there's a shock. He doesn't really know how this has happened. Orlando's cheek is too real.
Dom's hand flinches away, burned by sobriety, and Orlando jerks. Dom stumbles abruptly on the nubby ridges that have formed beneath his feet.
"Tide's coming in," says Orlando, already turning, still golden, face in shadow, to stagger back to shore.
::
They've been filming for months but there's always the training. It's not like hobbits have a lot of hacking and slashing to do, but Dom likes the discipline, the careful acceleration of intent into action. Sword ripping the air, the jab, the parry. Asserting your way into someone's space, stroke by stroke, opening up the air in front of you. Sometimes he goes down to the gym to find a stuntie practising, and spars with him or her.
Tonight he's gone hard, finding the sting in his muscles soothing even after a long morning on the Phoney Pony, jerking at false reins. The bout went on a long time; Dom losing ground, his arms like wet cement. Finally the stuntie calls off, pleading an early start ("You've got to be kidding. Try latex feet at 5am."), and Dom cleans up, then heads to the pub. Billy said he'd be there for a while.
When Dom walks in the air closes around him warm as dirty dishwater. The place is full, and people are knotted around the room in clusters, untidily. The music's loud, rackety over the clatter of voices. Dom goes and gets himself a drink, finds Billy at a table scattered with beer mats and bottles. Orlando's there too. Dom's not pleased to see him. He's been hearing about Orlando at the gym: how quick he is, what a natural, what a champ with the bow and sword. He's had enough Orlando for now. He doesn't want charm tonight.
They're laughing as Dom comes up.
"You'll never believe what this twat is telling me, Dom," says Billy, giggling still. "He's decided to kidnap Viggo. He's going to snatch him! He says Viggo smells, and you know how he's so rugged and independent, all that camping, so Orli's going to book him into a spa resort and have him buffed. By force if necessary. Down to his dainty toenails." Billy slurps down some beer and pokes Orlando, who's choking with laughter.
"Don't you think he'd appreciate it?" Orlando says after a moment, grinning and gurgling still.
"I can think of other uses you might put Viggo to," Dom says, sitting down.
"Well, yes," says Orlando. "Personal butler, bootscrubber, resident, what's the word, resident wise old man – "
"Sage," Dom supplies. Arsewiper, he thinks. Babysitter.
They drink their beers. Dom stretches, catches himself. His arm's strained, there's a thorough dull ache all through his muscles. He kneads one biceps gingerly. Orlando grabs at it. His strong fingers jab pain into Dom.
"Fuck off!" Dom flings his arm out of reach. Rust grinds in his veins, sings angrily against his skin.
"Bit sore, are we? Pooncy hobbits. No stamina."
"Fucking sore, yes, and fuck you very much too." Dom's not sure why he's so angry, he realises, but there's something he hates about being jabbed. "You arse."
"I was just – "
"Just keeping your fucking hands away from me. That's what."
Orlando has a genuinely shocked look on his face. Billy's keeping quiet.
"Can you not just sit there like a mate? You're always so bloody quick to dash in and be the hero." Dom realises as he's ranting that none of this makes sense. Who was being a hero? But he's stiff and tired and at this moment he hates Orlando's guts and the rest of his easy, golden, newbie swagger. He hates the way Orlando's relaxed again now and slung an arm over the back of his chair, watching him with that loose, confident smile. Orlando always knows everyone loves him. Dom's body is spitted through with the electric relief of being an arsehole. He stands up, and his stance is that of a lad from Stockport. Tense at the stomach, broad in the shoulders.
"Dom." Billy stands up, is wise enough not to touch him, speaks loudly. "Dom, go home, mate, and get some rest. Orlando's fine, it's time to go. We'll see you tomorrow."
Dom looks at Orlando, who replies with a gaze that surprises him: he's serious, a little uneasy. His dark eyes are childishly soft in the dim light. His skin looks raw and young, suddenly. He's looking up at Dom in something like unhappiness.
"Hey, man, I'm –"
Dom turns and walks out. The carpark is bleak with concrete under amber lights, and as he gets into his car he suddenly feels much the same way.
::
The next night, the air is nitrous and thick. All afternoon the trees have been greener, the gleams on surfaces more hazy. There's tenseness in the air, in the pauses between rough, sudden beat-ups of the wind, as Dom and Orlando sit on Orlando's verandah drinking beer.
"Wish it would hit, this storm," remarks Orlando. "I love big weather. Makes me want to get naked and run for miles."
"You fucking exhibitionist." It comes out savage. Dom's still wondering why he's over here. Orlando'd invited him, alone, and they've been making a kind of false ease, drinking too fast, slug after slug, chatting awkwardly about filming and watching the wind in the trees across the road. Dom's starting to get bored, and think of home, or Elijah's, or Billy's brightness.
"Dom. What the fuck is your problem?"
Orlando sits there, his long limbs angled, his expression sharp and beautiful at the same time. The bones of his face are strong in the verandah light; his mouth has an insolence Dom hasn't seen before. His long hands grip on his knees.
"You."
"Oh yeah. Me. Okay, let’s hear it. There's something you don't like?"
Dom tips his bottle and lets the fizzy liquid slide into his mouth. He puts the glass on the boards next to his chair and looks at Orlando straight. He feels blood bloom up in his cheeks.
"You, you've taken it all up, haven't you. All the newness, all the zap. Some fucking enfant terrible. It's fucking vulgar, is what it is."
Orlando’s whole body becomes long lines of defensiveness. Lean and tight, he leans forward.
“Listen, man, I’ve no fucking idea what your problem is. Is it that you’re not playing with the big boys enough? Little hobbit? Get over it, man. I just want to hang, you know—enjoy. Fucking enjoy, Dom, can’t you?”
Dom is full of rage, bright with it, it feels so good to be angry, and he’d like to just grab Orlando by the head and smash it—wrap its smugness in his arms—do something violent and satisfying and—
—suddenly he’s aware that the prickling in his skin is something else.
The sensation of drag is not anger.
His hand comes out, grasps Orlando’s where it lies on Orlando’s thigh, and squeezes it tightly. As tightly as he can. Orlando’s hand struggles a moment, then maybe Orlando realises that Dom’s not going to break his fingers, and the two hands entwine, tight tight tight.
Dom and Orlando look at their hands. Sinews and long fingers and smooth skin, one wrapped over the other, and there’s a pause and then the wind bashes over them roughly and drops again to stillness; they look up at each other.
“Is that it?” says Orlando.
Dom just stares at him. His fingers clench in a little more, and then Orlando clenches back, and Dom leans over and cups Orlando’s head with his other hand, and pulls it forward.
Unfamiliar, the feeling of Orlando’s wide mouth against his, clumsily jarring, and then Orlando’s lips, softer than Dom expected, and the shocking warm wetness of a tongue that dissolves all the boundaries of Dom’s mouth. The taste of beer and milky nervousness and the taste of a man Dom wants. He thrusts his own tongue in, shoves it into the wetness, and there’s the press of Orlando’s hand against the back of Dom’s head and Orlando’s lips and stubble and teeth all slipping together silkily against him as Dom kisses and kisses and kisses Orlando.
Orlando breaks away, leaving the taste of him on Dom’s still-open lips. He just looks at Dom, for a moment. His eyes are soft, and to Dom he hasn’t gone back to being Orlando yet. He’s the man Dom’s kissing.
“You’re an idiot, Dom,” says Orlando.
He gets up, stretches, and Dom can’t take his eyes off the slender waist in front of his face, the skin shimmering there for a moment, and then Orlando lowers his arms and gives Dom a look—a look which somehow combines a smile with something exasperated and something challenging—and he walks into the house.
Dom sits there, his hands on the wooden arms of his deck chair, his thumbs chafing the rough surfaces, while the wind buffets up and blows in his face and he opens his mouth to it. The air is warm in his mouth, and drying, but Dom wishes the rain would come.
Orlando, what did he want, what’s he doing—Dom sees a shadow flicker over the verandah, from Orlando moving inside behind the window that spills light out into the dark, and hears Orlando put music on—Orlando, what was that?
Dom, what are you doing?
He stands abruptly and his body feels stiff, as if he’s been asleep in an awkward position. He’s standing and he’s going to go inside and see Orlando, but for a moment he doesn’t do anything, and the drag in his veins is uncomfortable. He’s being pulled, and Dom doesn’t always like that. Dom likes to be the one who stands still and pulls people to him. Or at least that’s what he’s always thought. It seemed important, once.
In him, he finds his direction, and it clicks into place, just like that. North.
He bends, takes up his bottle of beer, has a long slug of the tepid liquid, rinses the taste of Orlando from his tongue; blinks; and walks inside.
Orlando’s lying on the couch, in soft light, listening to something dark and gentle. He opens his eyes lazily and gazes at Dom standing beside him.
“Do you want me to go?” says Dom.
“Do I want you to go?” Orlando repeats, slow smile on his face. “Do you think you should?”
Sometimes, Dom’s learned, it’s better to say nothing at all. So he simply bends and takes Orlando’s head in his hands and kisses him. The kiss is hard and thorough and says a lot of things. It says No.
And it says Yes. Yes.
And Orlando’s mouth, on Dom’s, makes shape after shape, and all of them are a challenge.
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This has such a tidal pull and tug to it. Just beautiful.
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really, thank you very much for reading, and letting me know. xx
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INCREDIBLE
Damn you had me hooked from begining to end. I wish I could say more but you've blown me away!!!!
Re: INCREDIBLE
thank you so much, them's some lovely words you've given me. i aim to please. *grins*
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merci, babe. <3
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i just wrote a three-way 69. does that count as a circle jerk?
i am flattered by your iguana stomp. very.
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And this is my OTP. It's the OTP of all my OTPs. Cause I love my other pairings but this is the one that dragged me back into fandom after I swore off years ago. And no one writes it quite like you do.
So. Thank you so much for still writing them. Thank you for making them sparkle or scrape or stagger, depending on the fic. Just...thank you. :)
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'tug of want' is good. that's very good to hear. so is 'sparkles or scrape or stagger'. mmmm.
actually i always find something lacking in my dom/orlando fics. they're weird. one of my OTPs but i always seem to make them so peevish with each other! where's the love?
so i'm very glad you liked this one. thank you so much! you can come over any time.
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thank you very much!
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thank you! very very glad you liked it. the d'orli is a perennial, i don't think it'll ever die... but i sure enjoy making them boys do their thing. they CRACKLE.