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fellowshippers2003-08-14 01:39 pm
airgiodslv.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-08-14 01:39 pm
Shatter
Title: Shatter
Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Andre Schneider
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Notes: Thanks to Cyndi for editing.
The party is wild - celebrities and supermodels and rock stars all laughing, drinking, so plastic that it hurts to look at them - and you have to smile and play along because this is going to be your life from now on. You catch sight of Liv across the stifling room, hanging on the arm of an older producer and laughing, showing shiny, perfect white teeth that match her immaculate designer pantsuit. Daughter of a rock star, on her way to becoming a movie star. She belongs here.
One day you will too.
You realize that you’ve drifted away from the party, closed off from the producers and casting directors and agents, and you need this, these connections, so you take a deep breath and smile again, so forced that it hurts, but the little tic at the corner of your mouth is the only giveaway. They don’t notice; they’re used to insincerity. You’re welcomed almost immediately back into the mix…the hot new thing, the one everyone has their eye on to see if he’ll sink or swim. You’re determined to swim, but they’ve seen far too many Hollywood wannabes burn out on drugs and alcohol and their own fears. They’ve been playing this game for years, and you haven’t even learned all of the rules.
You excuse yourself to go in search of another drink, try to breathe on your way over to the bar. There’s never enough air in these rooms. On the way, you are stopped at least a half-dozen times, and each time you smile and nod and chat until you can politely extricate yourself and resume your mission.
By the time you make it to the bar, you’re so exhausted that you can barely stand. The drink is cold, half-filled with ice, and you close your eyes for a moment, press your forehead to the glass and feel the condensation tickle your skin, instantly warming as it touches you. It’s unbelievably hot in here, sticky and cloying. Or maybe that’s just the residue from those around you, filming on your skin.
There’s a mirror above the bar, and you stare for a moment at your reflection. It feels like it’s someone else, wearing those expensive clothes and surrounded by Hollywood’s best and brightest. You’ll never belong here.
No, that’s wrong. Maybe you don’t yet, but you will. You will.
It makes you slightly ill, though, to think that one day soon you will be one of these people, that this will come naturally to you and no one will be able to see through your façade. Or, most terrifying of all, maybe you’ll become the façade, and there will be nothing to see through at all.
That’s the nightmare that wakes you in the early hours of the morning, sweating and gasping and clawing at the sheets in an attempt to hold onto something real. This, this isn’t real. But you’re afraid that one day it will become real for you.
Your reflection is haloed by one of the elegant chandeliers dripping diamond strings of glass from the ceiling. It’s almost funny, you with a halo in this place where no angel could survive. But you don’t laugh, you can’t even smile because smiling feels fake right now, and it hurts.
In your mind’s eye, you see the halo disappear, see the chandelier shatter into a million falsely glittering pieces, fracturing the mirror and that unrecognizable image of you. You imagine yourself shattering just like that, breaking apart into so many fragments that no one will ever be able to put you together again. You wonder if those sharp-eyed talent agents are right after all, if you’re going to burn out just like nearly everyone else, before you even begin.
Someone coughs beside you, a move obviously made to get your attention, and you break out of your fantasy world to search for the cheerful and charming young actor you’ve been playing all night. It’s a role, like any other, but for some reason tonight it’s harder to get into character. And maybe not worth it.
You should know who this is, but you don’t. He’s a director of some sort, important enough that your agent has pointed him out, and you panic a bit when you can’t remember his name.
“Todd Evans,” he introduces himself, and you smile just like you’ve practiced and introduce yourself in return, although he waves away your words with a heavy, bejeweled hand.
“Of course I know who you are, Mr. Bloom, just like everyone in this room knows.”
Flattery, even if it is an outright lie. You’re a small fish in this pond, and you’re neither stupid nor naïve enough to believe that you matter. Yet.
“I must say, you’ve certainly made quite a splash for a new star. Two blockbusters this year, or was it three? That many movies already under your belt is quite an achievement.”
He’s thinking of Rings, and maybe Black Hawk Down. You’ve had other projects, but none that go on your resume. Nobody’s heard of Lullaby of Clubland, and your agent is working hard to make sure that it stays that way. And heaven forbid they find out about Deed Poll.
He’s still talking, and you try to focus on the words, remind yourself that this is what you’re here for. It all seems so far away, distant. He’s middle-aged, graying hair but not a hint of a paunch. No one in Hollywood is allowed the luxury of extra weight.
“Do you have any projects currently in the works? Roles you’re looking for? You’d make a lovely leading man, but I’m sure that you’ve been told that before.”
Of course you have, but you answer politely anyway, respond to the flattery and the subtle cozying. He’s flirting with you, and once that would have made you laugh out loud, but not anymore. Because you know what’s expected, so you play along. This is another role you’ve memorized, a scene you know by heart. Lowered eyelashes, murmur just soft enough that he has to lean in to catch it, and when he places a hand on your wrist you force yourself not to snatch it away.
There’s a lull in the conversation around you, and then you hear an all-too-familiar voice, an accent that you never expected to hear tonight. You have just enough time to wonder if you’re dreaming before a hand comes to rest on your shoulder, turning you from your drinking companion and pulling your hand away.
“Orlando, you look great! How’s Hollywood treating you?”
You blink, unable to form words because your charming public image and this person do not belong in the same universe, and for a moment he looks like a complete stranger. But it’s Atti, the same strong features and clear eyes, and you still can’t speak. He pulls you into a hug, and you latch on, muscles tense, and you must be hurting him but you can’t let go. He doesn’t ask you to, just holds you for a few seconds before easing you away, and you remember where you are and who you want to be, and by the time your eyes meet his, the façade is firmly in place.
“Andre, how nice to see you. Mr. Evans, this is Andre Schneider. Andre, Mr. Evans.”
Mr. Evans doesn’t look pleased at the interruption, but he smiles anyway, because he’s playing the game too, and then Atti is charming his way out of the conversation and leaving the bar, and he’s taking you with him. You didn’t realize just how badly you needed for him to rescue you until he was already doing it, but he must have known. He always knows.
You don’t notice that he’s holding your hand until you’re halfway out the door, and by then you have no intention of giving it up. He’s your anchor, a lifeline to the real world, and you need him to find your way back.
He pulls you in the direction of the main doors, and you almost pull him back because they’re glass, so completely transparent, and you can imagine them shattering and showering you with burning, stinging shards. But Atti doesn’t stop for the doors, he shatters them simply by pushing them open, and you wonder how it feels to be that invincible.
There is suddenly air again, and by the time he comes to a halt you’re dizzy from the oxygen. It takes you a minute to figure out where he’s taken you, because it looks as if you’ve stepped into another world, one full of trees and stars and earth. But it’s only one of the private grottoes that ring the house, sculpted and pruned and as artificial as everything inside of it.
Your eyes wander back to his, stop dazedly on his face. You can’t get over the fact that he’s here, and while you want nothing more than for him to save you from this, you also hate that he’s seeing this side of you, that now he knows exactly what you’re becoming.
“Atti…” you whisper; evidently enough because he lets go of your hand and pulls you in again, and this time you don’t have to pull away.
When the worst of the tension has drained and you’re no longer clinging to him like a life raft, he holds you out at arm’s length, taking you in. And you don’t want to know what he sees.
“OB, why…?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you…”
“No, don’t even…I mean, I’m the one who…”
“It’s just that…”
“I know, you don’t have to…”
“I’m glad you’re…”
“So am I.”
You’re overlapping and babbling but it doesn’t matter, because the two of you have never needed words to communicate, and he understands everything that you can’t bring yourself to say.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you repeat, even though you know he understood you the first time. It’s important to you to get this out, because it’s the first genuine thing you’ve said all night, and you want him to know it.
“Well, you know, I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop by…” His smile is quick, and real, and you feel yourself responding in kind, but it still hurts, you’re still a little too raw for this. He’s looking for reassurance, but you’re too tired to give it to him.
His eyes are searching yours, and now he’s giving you that look, the one that says that he sees right through you. Viggo gives you that look, sometimes, but he never says a word. Atti says whatever he wants, and to hell with everyone else.
“What have they done to you?”
His words almost undo you, but you’re past the age of crying on people’s shoulders and whispering all of your insecurities, and all you can do is shake your head mutely and hope that he understands.
He leans forward until your foreheads touch and your noses are side-by-side, and his lips are just barely brushing yours. His hands come up to frame your face, brush at non-existent tears in the corner of your eyes.
“Don’t do this.”
“I have to.”
You’re almost sharing the same breath now, but somehow there’s more air between you than there was in that whole cavernous ballroom, and his forehead against yours cools your skin faster than the frosted ice in that glass.
“Come home,” he whispers, and you can’t be sure that you’ve heard correctly if it wasn’t for the movement of his lips against yours as he speaks, forming the words.
Your automatic reaction is to tense and pull away, but his hands tighten around your face, fingers cupping the back of your head, and you don’t put up much of a fight.
Home. London.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
You don’t have the words to explain it to him, that this is the only way you’ll ever make it, ever be a star. And he can’t understand how desperately you want that, because he’s never shared your dream…you’re not even sure that you want him to, but you also know that this moment can’t last forever, and you can’t just walk away from your life. No matter how much you might want to sometimes.
“Please, Atti…”
“OB…”
“I have to do this.”
“I know.”
His sigh is a response to the pleading that you can’t quite keep from your voice. He still has no idea why you want this, what it means to you to see yourself on screen and in print. This world means nothing to him. And you envy him for that, for making everything seem so simple. It’s never been simple for you.
“Just for a little while.”
You think it over, feel his words tickle across your lips. And you know that as long as you’re with him, the nightmares will be held at bay. There will be no danger of you shattering, because he can hold you together, and he will see through any façade you erect, any role you play. He’ll even let you fall apart, and then put you back together. He makes everything simple again.
You tilt your head down a fraction, giving yourself more room to breathe and allowing the tip of your nose to bump his lightly. You shouldn’t be out here with him, not like this, not so close to each other and the people in that house. But you don’t really care, not now, because you’re so tired of all of this and all you really want is to go with him. You sigh, and his smile means that he knows the answer before you even speak it, because the two of you have never needed words.
“All right.”
Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Andre Schneider
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This is a complete work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
Notes: Thanks to Cyndi for editing.
The party is wild - celebrities and supermodels and rock stars all laughing, drinking, so plastic that it hurts to look at them - and you have to smile and play along because this is going to be your life from now on. You catch sight of Liv across the stifling room, hanging on the arm of an older producer and laughing, showing shiny, perfect white teeth that match her immaculate designer pantsuit. Daughter of a rock star, on her way to becoming a movie star. She belongs here.
One day you will too.
You realize that you’ve drifted away from the party, closed off from the producers and casting directors and agents, and you need this, these connections, so you take a deep breath and smile again, so forced that it hurts, but the little tic at the corner of your mouth is the only giveaway. They don’t notice; they’re used to insincerity. You’re welcomed almost immediately back into the mix…the hot new thing, the one everyone has their eye on to see if he’ll sink or swim. You’re determined to swim, but they’ve seen far too many Hollywood wannabes burn out on drugs and alcohol and their own fears. They’ve been playing this game for years, and you haven’t even learned all of the rules.
You excuse yourself to go in search of another drink, try to breathe on your way over to the bar. There’s never enough air in these rooms. On the way, you are stopped at least a half-dozen times, and each time you smile and nod and chat until you can politely extricate yourself and resume your mission.
By the time you make it to the bar, you’re so exhausted that you can barely stand. The drink is cold, half-filled with ice, and you close your eyes for a moment, press your forehead to the glass and feel the condensation tickle your skin, instantly warming as it touches you. It’s unbelievably hot in here, sticky and cloying. Or maybe that’s just the residue from those around you, filming on your skin.
There’s a mirror above the bar, and you stare for a moment at your reflection. It feels like it’s someone else, wearing those expensive clothes and surrounded by Hollywood’s best and brightest. You’ll never belong here.
No, that’s wrong. Maybe you don’t yet, but you will. You will.
It makes you slightly ill, though, to think that one day soon you will be one of these people, that this will come naturally to you and no one will be able to see through your façade. Or, most terrifying of all, maybe you’ll become the façade, and there will be nothing to see through at all.
That’s the nightmare that wakes you in the early hours of the morning, sweating and gasping and clawing at the sheets in an attempt to hold onto something real. This, this isn’t real. But you’re afraid that one day it will become real for you.
Your reflection is haloed by one of the elegant chandeliers dripping diamond strings of glass from the ceiling. It’s almost funny, you with a halo in this place where no angel could survive. But you don’t laugh, you can’t even smile because smiling feels fake right now, and it hurts.
In your mind’s eye, you see the halo disappear, see the chandelier shatter into a million falsely glittering pieces, fracturing the mirror and that unrecognizable image of you. You imagine yourself shattering just like that, breaking apart into so many fragments that no one will ever be able to put you together again. You wonder if those sharp-eyed talent agents are right after all, if you’re going to burn out just like nearly everyone else, before you even begin.
Someone coughs beside you, a move obviously made to get your attention, and you break out of your fantasy world to search for the cheerful and charming young actor you’ve been playing all night. It’s a role, like any other, but for some reason tonight it’s harder to get into character. And maybe not worth it.
You should know who this is, but you don’t. He’s a director of some sort, important enough that your agent has pointed him out, and you panic a bit when you can’t remember his name.
“Todd Evans,” he introduces himself, and you smile just like you’ve practiced and introduce yourself in return, although he waves away your words with a heavy, bejeweled hand.
“Of course I know who you are, Mr. Bloom, just like everyone in this room knows.”
Flattery, even if it is an outright lie. You’re a small fish in this pond, and you’re neither stupid nor naïve enough to believe that you matter. Yet.
“I must say, you’ve certainly made quite a splash for a new star. Two blockbusters this year, or was it three? That many movies already under your belt is quite an achievement.”
He’s thinking of Rings, and maybe Black Hawk Down. You’ve had other projects, but none that go on your resume. Nobody’s heard of Lullaby of Clubland, and your agent is working hard to make sure that it stays that way. And heaven forbid they find out about Deed Poll.
He’s still talking, and you try to focus on the words, remind yourself that this is what you’re here for. It all seems so far away, distant. He’s middle-aged, graying hair but not a hint of a paunch. No one in Hollywood is allowed the luxury of extra weight.
“Do you have any projects currently in the works? Roles you’re looking for? You’d make a lovely leading man, but I’m sure that you’ve been told that before.”
Of course you have, but you answer politely anyway, respond to the flattery and the subtle cozying. He’s flirting with you, and once that would have made you laugh out loud, but not anymore. Because you know what’s expected, so you play along. This is another role you’ve memorized, a scene you know by heart. Lowered eyelashes, murmur just soft enough that he has to lean in to catch it, and when he places a hand on your wrist you force yourself not to snatch it away.
There’s a lull in the conversation around you, and then you hear an all-too-familiar voice, an accent that you never expected to hear tonight. You have just enough time to wonder if you’re dreaming before a hand comes to rest on your shoulder, turning you from your drinking companion and pulling your hand away.
“Orlando, you look great! How’s Hollywood treating you?”
You blink, unable to form words because your charming public image and this person do not belong in the same universe, and for a moment he looks like a complete stranger. But it’s Atti, the same strong features and clear eyes, and you still can’t speak. He pulls you into a hug, and you latch on, muscles tense, and you must be hurting him but you can’t let go. He doesn’t ask you to, just holds you for a few seconds before easing you away, and you remember where you are and who you want to be, and by the time your eyes meet his, the façade is firmly in place.
“Andre, how nice to see you. Mr. Evans, this is Andre Schneider. Andre, Mr. Evans.”
Mr. Evans doesn’t look pleased at the interruption, but he smiles anyway, because he’s playing the game too, and then Atti is charming his way out of the conversation and leaving the bar, and he’s taking you with him. You didn’t realize just how badly you needed for him to rescue you until he was already doing it, but he must have known. He always knows.
You don’t notice that he’s holding your hand until you’re halfway out the door, and by then you have no intention of giving it up. He’s your anchor, a lifeline to the real world, and you need him to find your way back.
He pulls you in the direction of the main doors, and you almost pull him back because they’re glass, so completely transparent, and you can imagine them shattering and showering you with burning, stinging shards. But Atti doesn’t stop for the doors, he shatters them simply by pushing them open, and you wonder how it feels to be that invincible.
There is suddenly air again, and by the time he comes to a halt you’re dizzy from the oxygen. It takes you a minute to figure out where he’s taken you, because it looks as if you’ve stepped into another world, one full of trees and stars and earth. But it’s only one of the private grottoes that ring the house, sculpted and pruned and as artificial as everything inside of it.
Your eyes wander back to his, stop dazedly on his face. You can’t get over the fact that he’s here, and while you want nothing more than for him to save you from this, you also hate that he’s seeing this side of you, that now he knows exactly what you’re becoming.
“Atti…” you whisper; evidently enough because he lets go of your hand and pulls you in again, and this time you don’t have to pull away.
When the worst of the tension has drained and you’re no longer clinging to him like a life raft, he holds you out at arm’s length, taking you in. And you don’t want to know what he sees.
“OB, why…?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for you…”
“No, don’t even…I mean, I’m the one who…”
“It’s just that…”
“I know, you don’t have to…”
“I’m glad you’re…”
“So am I.”
You’re overlapping and babbling but it doesn’t matter, because the two of you have never needed words to communicate, and he understands everything that you can’t bring yourself to say.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you repeat, even though you know he understood you the first time. It’s important to you to get this out, because it’s the first genuine thing you’ve said all night, and you want him to know it.
“Well, you know, I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop by…” His smile is quick, and real, and you feel yourself responding in kind, but it still hurts, you’re still a little too raw for this. He’s looking for reassurance, but you’re too tired to give it to him.
His eyes are searching yours, and now he’s giving you that look, the one that says that he sees right through you. Viggo gives you that look, sometimes, but he never says a word. Atti says whatever he wants, and to hell with everyone else.
“What have they done to you?”
His words almost undo you, but you’re past the age of crying on people’s shoulders and whispering all of your insecurities, and all you can do is shake your head mutely and hope that he understands.
He leans forward until your foreheads touch and your noses are side-by-side, and his lips are just barely brushing yours. His hands come up to frame your face, brush at non-existent tears in the corner of your eyes.
“Don’t do this.”
“I have to.”
You’re almost sharing the same breath now, but somehow there’s more air between you than there was in that whole cavernous ballroom, and his forehead against yours cools your skin faster than the frosted ice in that glass.
“Come home,” he whispers, and you can’t be sure that you’ve heard correctly if it wasn’t for the movement of his lips against yours as he speaks, forming the words.
Your automatic reaction is to tense and pull away, but his hands tighten around your face, fingers cupping the back of your head, and you don’t put up much of a fight.
Home. London.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
You don’t have the words to explain it to him, that this is the only way you’ll ever make it, ever be a star. And he can’t understand how desperately you want that, because he’s never shared your dream…you’re not even sure that you want him to, but you also know that this moment can’t last forever, and you can’t just walk away from your life. No matter how much you might want to sometimes.
“Please, Atti…”
“OB…”
“I have to do this.”
“I know.”
His sigh is a response to the pleading that you can’t quite keep from your voice. He still has no idea why you want this, what it means to you to see yourself on screen and in print. This world means nothing to him. And you envy him for that, for making everything seem so simple. It’s never been simple for you.
“Just for a little while.”
You think it over, feel his words tickle across your lips. And you know that as long as you’re with him, the nightmares will be held at bay. There will be no danger of you shattering, because he can hold you together, and he will see through any façade you erect, any role you play. He’ll even let you fall apart, and then put you back together. He makes everything simple again.
You tilt your head down a fraction, giving yourself more room to breathe and allowing the tip of your nose to bump his lightly. You shouldn’t be out here with him, not like this, not so close to each other and the people in that house. But you don’t really care, not now, because you’re so tired of all of this and all you really want is to go with him. You sigh, and his smile means that he knows the answer before you even speak it, because the two of you have never needed words.
“All right.”
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loved. it.
more people need to write this pairing. yea you for doing it.
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