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fellowshippers2005-01-16 10:36 pm
cloudlessclimes.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-01-16 10:36 pm
Always Changing, Probably
Title: Always Changing, Probably
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cloudlessclimes
Rated: PG
Pairing: OB/EW
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one
Summary: Sometimes we hear what we want to, other times we refuse to believe what we hear.
Feedback: Is a rare and wonderful thing and makes life worth living.
Notes: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lotrpschallenge #28. Half-Open doors
Elijah took a deep breath and continued across the lot, past his own trailer. He was 18, now: an adult in years as well as thoughts. Time to act like one. Crushes were for pre-teen girls. He had to confess, come clean. And hope his pride and his heart would make it through unscathed.
He stood a few feet away from the bus and debated whether he should knock or just barge right in and plead his case before his courage failed. Taking a step forward, Elijah noticed the bus door was slightly ajar. As he adjusted his position, in order to haul on the door, he heard a voice—a distinctly female voice—coming from inside. Elijah froze, the rubber rim of the door biting a red mark into his palm.
“Oh, Orli,” Liv sighed deeply. Elijah leaned in close and peeked through the thin crack. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright New Zealand sunshine to the darkness inside the bus. What he could see was two pairs of long, denim-clad legs pressed close, and little else.
The other voice wafted across the summer air as a soft, hiccupping sniffle. “You won’t tell anyone? Will you? Please? Promise me Livvie!” Orlando sounded so sad and broken and so unlike the Orlando Elijah thought he knew, it took him a few minutes to figure out he was indeed the person speaking. He was crying. And Elijah could feel a painful tightening in his own chest.
“Of course not, sweetie. Not if you don’t want me to.” There was a sussing of denim against denim, and as Elijah again pressed his forehead to the thin sliver of space, he saw the two pairs of legs had shifted position, Liv obviously having drawn Orlando to her in an attempt to comfort.
Orlando’s sniffling sobs again tortured Elijah. “Oh…God! It hurts. It hurts so much.” Pain? Orlando never complained about pain or discomfort, never in any serious way, at least. This must be bad. Very bad. And Elijah wasn’t supposed to know. It took everything Elijah had not to fling open the door and drag Orlando into the safety of his arms. He should be the one to comfort, to soothe.
“I know, honey.” Elijah heard the battered old sofa groan in protest as the two actors again shifted closer. “But, it won’t hurt forever. It may be incurable, but it’s seldom fatal.” Orlando gave a watery laugh at Liv’s attempt to cheer him up.
Oh. God. Orlando was sick. And he didn’t want anyone to know. But now Elijah knew. And he couldn’t do anything about it. Because he wasn’t supposed to know. He bit his lip and slowly pried his fingers from around the old bus’s doorframe. He felt confused and heartsick and foolish. To think, he’d been afraid of Orlando’s reaction to what he wanted to tell him, to how he felt. Orlando was obviously facing something far more terrifying than a co-star’s crush. And he had chosen to confide in Liv. Irrationally jealous, Elijah wheeled on his heel and raced back towards his own trailer. His head began to ache with worry, and his stomach churned with fear.
As filming continued, although he didn’t have many scenes with Orlando, Elijah did his best to monitor his friend’s health. As covertly as possible, or course. He tried to be the affable voice of reason whenever Orlando perched on the verge of over-indulging in drink—which was infrequent, or some daredevil adrenaline-laced foolishness—which seemed to be a regular occurrence. Yet, Orlando never seemed exceptionally pained or tired (well no more so than anyone else on 3 months of night shoots for Helm’s Deep).
Elijah would casually enquire how Orli was doing, how he was feeling. Orlando would respond with a slightly bemused expression and dark shining eyes, and Elijah would inevitably forget what it was he’d asked in the first place. Weeks passed and Elijah was running out of ways to innocently ask if surfing was wise, or if dirt biking was safe, or if staying out ‘til 4 when you had a call at 6 made sense. He knew he was crossing some kind of line when Orlando laughingly said, “Legolas doesn’t need a Samwise, Lij.”
But this was crazy. “Orli, are you sure you should be going bungee jumping?” Elijah asked, his concern and worry telegraphed in the expression on his face and the soft touch of his fingers on Orlando’s forearm.
Orlando grinned and shrugged. “Sure, man. Like, why not, ya know? Lot’s of people have done it, yeah? Looks wicked.” And then he chuckled and ran his hand across the strip of dark hair growing from the center of his scalp.
“Um, it’s just that, if you’re, you know, in pain then…” Elijah trailed off and chewed energetically at the skin around his thumb, averting his eyes from a mirth-filled brown gaze to assess how Dom’s convincing himself he could jump was going.
“Pain? I’m not in pain.”
Elijah cleared his throat, and squinted towards the bridge they would be leaping from. “I, uh, I know, Orli.”
“Know? Know what?” Orlando hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans and cocked his head.
Embarrassment flared to life on the fine bones of Elijah’s cheeks. He coughed to clear his throat and blurted out, “I heard you. And Liv. That day. In the bus. You were crying. I know Orli. I know you’re ill. And I’m just trying to help you. Please let me.”
Orlando took a step closer to Elijah, and extended long brown fingers to gently brush across the soft age-worn cotton of the smaller man's t-shirt. “I don’t need help, Elijah.” He said softly, in an intimate tone Elijah had never heard him use before. At hearing Orlando use his full name, Elijah snapped his head up to meet his gaze. “And I’m not ill.” His smile was bitter-sweet.
“Yes you are!” Elijah stated, stilling the maddening motion of fingers that was exponentially decreasing his ability to form coherent thought. “It’s alright, I know…”
“No, Lijah. I’m not ill.” Orlando stepped even closer and Elijah had to grasp at Orlando’s shoulders or topple backwards. “I’m not ill. I’m…I’m in love.” Orlando leaned in close to speak--barely above a whisper--into the sensitive shell of Elijah’s ear.
“Oh,” Elijah felt as though he’d been sucker-punched. Swallowing down a world of hurt, he managed to squeak, “Well, whoever she is I’m sure she’d be thrilled…”
“It’s not a she…”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Orlando’s smile threatened to split his face apart. Elijah saw his own shocked expression twinned in coffee-dark eyes, before his lips were covered in a kiss.
Author:
cloudlessclimes Rated: PG
Pairing: OB/EW
Disclaimer: This is purely a product of my diseased mind and has no bearing on reality what so ever, I own no one, I know no one
Summary: Sometimes we hear what we want to, other times we refuse to believe what we hear.
Feedback: Is a rare and wonderful thing and makes life worth living.
Notes: for
lotrpschallenge #28. Half-Open doorsElijah took a deep breath and continued across the lot, past his own trailer. He was 18, now: an adult in years as well as thoughts. Time to act like one. Crushes were for pre-teen girls. He had to confess, come clean. And hope his pride and his heart would make it through unscathed.
He stood a few feet away from the bus and debated whether he should knock or just barge right in and plead his case before his courage failed. Taking a step forward, Elijah noticed the bus door was slightly ajar. As he adjusted his position, in order to haul on the door, he heard a voice—a distinctly female voice—coming from inside. Elijah froze, the rubber rim of the door biting a red mark into his palm.
“Oh, Orli,” Liv sighed deeply. Elijah leaned in close and peeked through the thin crack. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright New Zealand sunshine to the darkness inside the bus. What he could see was two pairs of long, denim-clad legs pressed close, and little else.
The other voice wafted across the summer air as a soft, hiccupping sniffle. “You won’t tell anyone? Will you? Please? Promise me Livvie!” Orlando sounded so sad and broken and so unlike the Orlando Elijah thought he knew, it took him a few minutes to figure out he was indeed the person speaking. He was crying. And Elijah could feel a painful tightening in his own chest.
“Of course not, sweetie. Not if you don’t want me to.” There was a sussing of denim against denim, and as Elijah again pressed his forehead to the thin sliver of space, he saw the two pairs of legs had shifted position, Liv obviously having drawn Orlando to her in an attempt to comfort.
Orlando’s sniffling sobs again tortured Elijah. “Oh…God! It hurts. It hurts so much.” Pain? Orlando never complained about pain or discomfort, never in any serious way, at least. This must be bad. Very bad. And Elijah wasn’t supposed to know. It took everything Elijah had not to fling open the door and drag Orlando into the safety of his arms. He should be the one to comfort, to soothe.
“I know, honey.” Elijah heard the battered old sofa groan in protest as the two actors again shifted closer. “But, it won’t hurt forever. It may be incurable, but it’s seldom fatal.” Orlando gave a watery laugh at Liv’s attempt to cheer him up.
Oh. God. Orlando was sick. And he didn’t want anyone to know. But now Elijah knew. And he couldn’t do anything about it. Because he wasn’t supposed to know. He bit his lip and slowly pried his fingers from around the old bus’s doorframe. He felt confused and heartsick and foolish. To think, he’d been afraid of Orlando’s reaction to what he wanted to tell him, to how he felt. Orlando was obviously facing something far more terrifying than a co-star’s crush. And he had chosen to confide in Liv. Irrationally jealous, Elijah wheeled on his heel and raced back towards his own trailer. His head began to ache with worry, and his stomach churned with fear.
As filming continued, although he didn’t have many scenes with Orlando, Elijah did his best to monitor his friend’s health. As covertly as possible, or course. He tried to be the affable voice of reason whenever Orlando perched on the verge of over-indulging in drink—which was infrequent, or some daredevil adrenaline-laced foolishness—which seemed to be a regular occurrence. Yet, Orlando never seemed exceptionally pained or tired (well no more so than anyone else on 3 months of night shoots for Helm’s Deep).
Elijah would casually enquire how Orli was doing, how he was feeling. Orlando would respond with a slightly bemused expression and dark shining eyes, and Elijah would inevitably forget what it was he’d asked in the first place. Weeks passed and Elijah was running out of ways to innocently ask if surfing was wise, or if dirt biking was safe, or if staying out ‘til 4 when you had a call at 6 made sense. He knew he was crossing some kind of line when Orlando laughingly said, “Legolas doesn’t need a Samwise, Lij.”
But this was crazy. “Orli, are you sure you should be going bungee jumping?” Elijah asked, his concern and worry telegraphed in the expression on his face and the soft touch of his fingers on Orlando’s forearm.
Orlando grinned and shrugged. “Sure, man. Like, why not, ya know? Lot’s of people have done it, yeah? Looks wicked.” And then he chuckled and ran his hand across the strip of dark hair growing from the center of his scalp.
“Um, it’s just that, if you’re, you know, in pain then…” Elijah trailed off and chewed energetically at the skin around his thumb, averting his eyes from a mirth-filled brown gaze to assess how Dom’s convincing himself he could jump was going.
“Pain? I’m not in pain.”
Elijah cleared his throat, and squinted towards the bridge they would be leaping from. “I, uh, I know, Orli.”
“Know? Know what?” Orlando hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans and cocked his head.
Embarrassment flared to life on the fine bones of Elijah’s cheeks. He coughed to clear his throat and blurted out, “I heard you. And Liv. That day. In the bus. You were crying. I know Orli. I know you’re ill. And I’m just trying to help you. Please let me.”
Orlando took a step closer to Elijah, and extended long brown fingers to gently brush across the soft age-worn cotton of the smaller man's t-shirt. “I don’t need help, Elijah.” He said softly, in an intimate tone Elijah had never heard him use before. At hearing Orlando use his full name, Elijah snapped his head up to meet his gaze. “And I’m not ill.” His smile was bitter-sweet.
“Yes you are!” Elijah stated, stilling the maddening motion of fingers that was exponentially decreasing his ability to form coherent thought. “It’s alright, I know…”
“No, Lijah. I’m not ill.” Orlando stepped even closer and Elijah had to grasp at Orlando’s shoulders or topple backwards. “I’m not ill. I’m…I’m in love.” Orlando leaned in close to speak--barely above a whisper--into the sensitive shell of Elijah’s ear.
“Oh,” Elijah felt as though he’d been sucker-punched. Swallowing down a world of hurt, he managed to squeak, “Well, whoever she is I’m sure she’d be thrilled…”
“It’s not a she…”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” Orlando’s smile threatened to split his face apart. Elijah saw his own shocked expression twinned in coffee-dark eyes, before his lips were covered in a kiss.
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Orlando! Elijah! In love!
You'll have to pardon my incoherency (blame the cold meds) and just accept the fact that this was totally heartwarming and just exactly what I needed.