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fellowshippers2005-03-14 01:03 pm
belladonnalin.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2005-03-14 01:03 pm
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Title: Dancing Part of Myself
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
belladonnalin
Rating: PG
Word Count: about 600
Pairing: Elijah Wood/Orlando Bloom
Warnings: slash (sorta), longing, AU
Disclaimer: These characters are fictionalized characters based, loosely, on the public personas and characters of real life actors. Obviously, this never happened. But I appreciate the inspiration, either way.
Author’s Notes: Fortalesinbloom, for pushing me out of a slump and back into fandom. You asked for happy ending and THIS is what happens. There’s no pr0n, though. Just lots of voyeuristic longing. Tried something new with the ElijahVoice.
Title from the following line: "Was I searching for a dancer whose name I did not know, or was I searching for the dancing part of myself?" – Sexing the Cherry, Jeannette Winterson.
Lights flash and the dancers circle each other on a small square of linoleum. Hands seem to move disconnected from arms, arms flowing in circles, bodies moving.
I don’t dance. I do many other things. I drink, I smoke, I laugh, I talk, I watch. More than all else, I watch. But I don’t dance.
I watch them all, sometimes for hours. But there’s one that I look for, one body that I’m always searching out.
My first time here, I saw him curl like smoke around a small blonde woman who moved just slightly off the beat. She was both like him and unlike him, skin glowing with a gold like his, but bright in all the places that he was dark. She couldn’t dance on her own, but with him ... oh god, with him, they were like sunlight and shadows.
They were perfect, but I knew that the perfection was all him. The sunlight was never worth noticing until there was a shadow, anyway.
He’s here, every week. Every week, dancing with someone different, dancing alone, always writhing around a different piece of space. Always the exhibitionist, he’s performing for someone.
I wonder, sometimes, if he’s performing for me.
Taking another drag off another cigarette, I watch. I always watch.
Tonight, he’s dancing alone. Not unheard of, no, but certainly unusual. Stretching, pulling, contracting, his body spelling out the beat.
I don’t even know if he dances well. But goddamn if he doesn’t move well.
Tonight will be like all the other nights. He will dance. I will watch. It will be as it should be.
Until he opens his eyes and stares directly at me.
My hand jumps a little, spilling a bit of vodka on my slacks. “Fuck,” I curse quietly, not able to pull my eyes away from his gaze.
I could say that he writhes toward me, that he holds my gaze across the floor.
But really, he just smiles a long, lazy, decadent smirk and walks toward me.
My eyes widen as he approaches. I’ve never seen him this close. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure that I’ve even seen his eyes.
He is at the edge of the floor, approaching my table.
I take a deep breath, not sure I can do this.
He stops at the edge of my table, running his eyes from the top of my hair to my hands that are nervously tapping another cigarette out of my pack.
He raises an eyebrow at me, taking in my slightly shaking hands and wide eyes, as he takes the open chair at the edge of the table.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He levels his gaze at me, making no move to say anything.
Fuck. He watches, too. And that’s when I realize that I’m meeting my match.
Fuck.
“Elijah,” I say, quietly, offering a hand.
His eyes widen almost as if he should have known. “Orlando,” he said, flashing a mouth full of teeth as bright and sharp as my own. He takes my hand and pulls me up and toward the dance floor.
“I don’t …” I begin my protests. Standard.
“I do.”
He turns around and stares at me. And I realize that I’m this far from my shadows.
And really, it’s only fair. He's been playing my game for months.
So I dance.
We dance.
Author:
belladonnalinRating: PG
Word Count: about 600
Pairing: Elijah Wood/Orlando Bloom
Warnings: slash (sorta), longing, AU
Disclaimer: These characters are fictionalized characters based, loosely, on the public personas and characters of real life actors. Obviously, this never happened. But I appreciate the inspiration, either way.
Author’s Notes: For
talesinbloom, for pushing me out of a slump and back into fandom. You asked for happy ending and THIS is what happens. There’s no pr0n, though. Just lots of voyeuristic longing. Tried something new with the ElijahVoice. Title from the following line: "Was I searching for a dancer whose name I did not know, or was I searching for the dancing part of myself?" – Sexing the Cherry, Jeannette Winterson.
Lights flash and the dancers circle each other on a small square of linoleum. Hands seem to move disconnected from arms, arms flowing in circles, bodies moving.
I don’t dance. I do many other things. I drink, I smoke, I laugh, I talk, I watch. More than all else, I watch. But I don’t dance.
I watch them all, sometimes for hours. But there’s one that I look for, one body that I’m always searching out.
My first time here, I saw him curl like smoke around a small blonde woman who moved just slightly off the beat. She was both like him and unlike him, skin glowing with a gold like his, but bright in all the places that he was dark. She couldn’t dance on her own, but with him ... oh god, with him, they were like sunlight and shadows.
They were perfect, but I knew that the perfection was all him. The sunlight was never worth noticing until there was a shadow, anyway.
He’s here, every week. Every week, dancing with someone different, dancing alone, always writhing around a different piece of space. Always the exhibitionist, he’s performing for someone.
I wonder, sometimes, if he’s performing for me.
Taking another drag off another cigarette, I watch. I always watch.
Tonight, he’s dancing alone. Not unheard of, no, but certainly unusual. Stretching, pulling, contracting, his body spelling out the beat.
I don’t even know if he dances well. But goddamn if he doesn’t move well.
Tonight will be like all the other nights. He will dance. I will watch. It will be as it should be.
Until he opens his eyes and stares directly at me.
My hand jumps a little, spilling a bit of vodka on my slacks. “Fuck,” I curse quietly, not able to pull my eyes away from his gaze.
I could say that he writhes toward me, that he holds my gaze across the floor.
But really, he just smiles a long, lazy, decadent smirk and walks toward me.
My eyes widen as he approaches. I’ve never seen him this close. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure that I’ve even seen his eyes.
He is at the edge of the floor, approaching my table.
I take a deep breath, not sure I can do this.
He stops at the edge of my table, running his eyes from the top of my hair to my hands that are nervously tapping another cigarette out of my pack.
He raises an eyebrow at me, taking in my slightly shaking hands and wide eyes, as he takes the open chair at the edge of the table.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
He levels his gaze at me, making no move to say anything.
Fuck. He watches, too. And that’s when I realize that I’m meeting my match.
Fuck.
“Elijah,” I say, quietly, offering a hand.
His eyes widen almost as if he should have known. “Orlando,” he said, flashing a mouth full of teeth as bright and sharp as my own. He takes my hand and pulls me up and toward the dance floor.
“I don’t …” I begin my protests. Standard.
“I do.”
He turns around and stares at me. And I realize that I’m this far from my shadows.
And really, it’s only fair. He's been playing my game for months.
So I dance.
We dance.