Sorry about the repost...The Arts: The Art of Getting Ready (1/?)

[doodle-lover.livejournal.com]

Title: The Arts: The Art of Getting Ready (1/?)
Author: doodle_lover
Pairing: Orlijah
Rating: NC-17, later
Feedback: Makes my heart happy...
Summary: Elijah is a film student, and Orlando is his teacher.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Why would I just write about it if it was?
Beta: The beautiful often_adamanta
A/N: I'm sorry about the repost, but I hoped to refamiliarize those who read it before, and maybe get some new ones, cause I have a beta now(*happy dance*), and so, the parts are going to be coming out as regular as I can. Thanks for reading!



The Arts 1: The Art of Getting Ready


Elijah rolled over in his new dorm room bed and lifted his new pillow over his head, contemplating throwing his new alarm clock onto his new rug, then kicking it out of his new door, into the new hall of his new dorm, on his new campus, in his new state. Instead, he flailed around for a second, kicking off his new sheets and old comforter. Sighing, he took the pillow off his ears and reached over to his new bedside table and fumbled off the annoying jangling of the alarm. Flipping around, he looked up at the ceiling, stretching, glancing around at all the posters he had put up the day before. There was his Mixology poster and his crazy ‘this is what you wanna to look at when you’re high’ poster, staples for any college dorm. Turning onto his side, he yawned and squinted at the alarm. 10:45. He still had an hour before he had to be dressed and over at Charleston Hall. Then another 15 before his class started. God bless late days.

Knowing how he hated mornings, and preparing for late night benders, Elijah had scheduled all of his classes later in the day. Not a single class before noon. Swinging his legs over the bed, he shifted his weight and sat up, stretching up to the sky, light blue tee shirt riding up from the waistband of his boxers. Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of the shirt and yanked it up over his head, running a hand through his hair and thanking the heavens that he didn’t have a roommate yet. According to the Office of Housing, his roommate was lost in transit, which worked fine for him. He stood and stretched his legs out in front of him, one at a time. The drive over was still taking a toll on him. Imagine being cramped in a Honda Civic for a few hours. Yeah. Even if he was short. Well, not exactly short, slightly shorter than the average Joe, his mom used to say. Sliding his boxers to the floor and stepping out of them, he reached into the closet, damp air sending chills down his spine, and slipped on his robe. He grabbed his shower kit and a towel, slid his feet into some shower shoes, and headed to the communal showers.
About fifteen minutes later, he unlocked the door, closed and locked it behind him, and walked back over to his closet, dumping his towel in his dirty clothes hamper,

(yes, Mah, always put stuff away.)

and putting his kit on a washcloth so it wouldn’t drip everywhere.

(see, Mah?)

He went over to his stereo

(yes, Mah…had to bring it.)

and stuck on one of his new favorite CD’s, of the moment anyway, Reel Big Fish’s Cheer Up album. It was classic wake-up music. He took off his shower shoes and placed them on the washcloth, so they wouldn’t drip either, humming along with the song. Next, he took off his robe and hung it on the hook on the back of the closet door. It was cold. He still wasn’t used to the weather here in New Hampshire. He had come from Newport, Rhode Island and you would think that he would be used to it, but…this was a different cold. He opened his top drawer, pushing aside socks and an unopened box of condoms

(yes, Mah, always safe.)

and grabbing a pair of boxers, green plaid. He pulled them on, and started rummaging for a pair of jeans. He found a pair, and took them off the hanger. Shaking them out, he looked at them lovingly.

(yes, Mah, still have them.)

Thread bare in places, scribbled on, torn, holy, marked up with Sharpies, they were his favorite pair of jeans ever. The idea for his first short film was written on these jeans, right there in maroon Sharpie. That film was what got him into this school with a full scholarship. He tugged them on, still fit perfectly. Elijah reached into the closet again, finding a tee shirt, maroon to bring out his eyes and the scrawled Sharpie, with a faded, obscure band logo. Then he rummaged for one more shirt, a light blue and green striped button up. He slipped it on, leaving it unbuttoned and rolling up the sleeves to about his elbows, singing with the lyrics coming from the stereo. Opening his unorganized sock drawer once more, he grabbed a pair of socks and sat down on his bed to pull them on, along with his comfy, old, drawn-on dark green Chucks.

(yes, Mah, still have them, too.)

Standing back up, he went over to his mirror, and brushed his teeth with his electric toothbrush, and mint toothpaste, humming along in the back of his throat. Spitting, he contemplated his hair. Hair or hat? Rinsing, he decided hair for the first day. He swung open the medicine cabinet door, short, bitten fingers drumming out the beat on the mirror. Taking down the light green jar, he closed it the door, and opened the jar.

(yes, Mah, still used it.)

Slicking his fingers up with the cool green gel, he sang along with the CD, working the sticky substance between his hands. Working from the back forward, he applied the styling product, mussing and messing his hair. Sticking parts up and slicking parts down, he looked it over carefully.

(yes, Mah, you don’t get a first impression twice.)

Deciding it was as good as it was going to get, he washed his hands and screwed back on the cap, placing it back in the cabinet.

(see, Mah?)

Glancing at the clock, he thought about grabbing some food. Turning off the CD mid word, he pulled on a jacket, grabbed his already packed messenger bag , and swung it on. Sticking his wallet in a back pocket and taking his keys and sunglasses off his table, he closed the door on his first morning at New Hampshire Film Academy.