ext_37732 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
padawanhilary.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fellowshippers2006-03-27 07:40 pm
padawanhilary.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2006-03-27 07:40 pm
Fic: Orlando/Elijah, "Sugar-Coated"
Title: Sugar-Coated
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
padawanhilary
Fandom/Pairing: LOTRPS, Orlando/Elijah
Rating/Warnings: NC-17,
Word Count: +/- 2600
Song Prompt: "Sing Me Spanish Techno"
Summary: Orlando has no idea how Elijah can be so fucking perky when their relationship is falling apart.
Disclaimer: I don't actually believe these two ever shagged, and neither should you.
Notes: Not beta-read.
Orlando dangles the remote idly, glowering at the TV. He hasn't even got the sound on, but it isn't as though what's on -- some contest show, apparently -- holds any interest for him.
Elijah's in the kitchen bopping around to some perky, jaunty song, something he borrowed from Billy, Orlando suspects, and Orli's just sick of it, the sugar-coated, ADD, not-quite-club music. It isn't as though Orlando can get away with streaming Dylan out of the speakers, anyway.
"Elijah," Orlando calls, tipping his chin up, and then louder, as he's either ignored or goes unheard, "'Lijah."
"Huh, what?" Elijah says, turning, setting the knife down that he was using to annihilate a block of cheese.
"It's loud." Orlando turns rather petulantly back to the TV. "Turn it down, please."
Elijah lets out a disbelieving snort. "It's not loud," he says, and he glances at his boom box to check. "It's not loud." He shakes his head, watching Orlando expectantly.
And Orlando can feel the fight brewing the way tea stains water, slowly, almost an ooze, but he is helpless to stop himself. "It's annoying," he amends, voice too careful, "and I'd rather not be listening to it right now; I don't like it."
"Well, if you don't like it," and Elijah tilts his head irritably and punches the eject button like it's offended him, "that's different. You could've just said that."
Letting out a pissed-off huff, Orlando kills the television and stands. "I shouldn't fucking have to say that," he mutters, heading for the bedroom, "because you know I fucking hate that pop-rock shite you listen to."
"Oh," Elijah throws his hands up and rolls his eyes, then follows; Orlando knows Elijah hates it when he walks out of the room, but that, too, is something he can't seem to help right now. "Now it's shite, is it?" he demands, straining the accent badly. "If you want to insult me, just go ahead and do it, why hide behind my CD collection?"
Orlando knows when he turns back to face Elijah, always so hard to do when they're fighting and those beautiful eyes are filled with that ugly temper, that he's about to make a mistake. It's abundantly clear to him even as the words bubble up, and he has an almost out-of-body understanding that he's about to fuck this for good, but it all comes out anyway:
"I can't fucking understand how you can listen to that shite, it has no substance, no meaning, and you're bouncing around the fucking kitchen like everything's fine when you know good and goddamned well that it isn't." And he blinks, filling up with a slow kind of horror as a matching expression dawns on Elijah's face.
"I..." For a second, Elijah looks as though he's going to either cry or vomit, and Orlando hates that right now, the sheer ease and intensity of expression that will win Elijah whatever role he wants for the rest of his life. "It isn't fine?" he asks at last, sounding like Orlando kicked him, and it makes Orlando want to kick himself. It makes him want to gather Elijah up and take the words back, no, no, I'm sorry, everything's fine, it's all fine, and kiss him until that beaten-dog look goes away.
There's so much to say, though, so much to process, and no amount of fervent backpedaling will fix that. "No," Orlando scowls, turning away, and he goes into the little loo to fuck around with his hair and wash his hands and anything that will keep him from making eye contact, though meeting his own eyes in the mirror isn't exactly palatable right now, either. "It isn't fine, and it hasn't been fine in ages, and you know it."
"No I don't." That incredulous snort is back, and Orlando closes his eyes; the temper will be gone from Elijah's face and in its place, that half-mocking expression that says Orlando's wrong. And he wonders why I can't look at him. "Why would I know it? You've never -- you have a problem with me? And you never said anything? What isn't fine, Orli? You'd better tell me, because I have a feeling it's a little fucking bigger than the fact that I'm listening to music you're not keen on."
Orlando's trapped, now, with nothing to say and nowhere to go, because he can't tell the truth. He can't tell Elijah that he himself is jealous, fundamentally annoyed and envious of his lover's experience, his acting chops, his ease with the others, and that's coloring everything these days, even the sex. Especially the sex, when Orlando's fucking Elijah into the bed and Elijah's all but screaming with it, Orlando can't possibly tell him that he doesn't want it to be good sometimes, he wants it to be punishment. For being what Orlando's never managed to be: real.
"Forget it," Orli mutters toward the sink. "Just never mind."
"I don't think I can do that," Elijah says in that same incredulous tone. "You don't get to tell me things aren't okay between us and then not tell me why."
"I can't explain it," Orlando says, leaning both palms on the counter and curling his hands. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, that's just not on." Orlando can hear Elijah moving closer, and he can't stand it. "Whether or not you wish you hadn't said anything is pointless, now -- you said it, and I deserve an answer after...what, four months? Almost five that we've been together?"
Five, almost six, Orlando corrects mentally, but he supposes his timeline's different from Elijah's; Elijah's goes from first date to now, Orlando's goes from the first time he saw Elijah look at him that way, with that weight in his gaze that made Orli's breath go short. That was when Orlando knew he wasn't lusting alone, so he counts from there. The prevailing thought has always been Why is he with me? and so Orlando has stockpiled precious looks, touches, kisses, as an oblique sort of proof it's all real.
"I said I can't explain it," Orlando insists, voice going quieter. "Look, it's just me, all right? It's nothing to do with you."
"How are things not fine?" Elijah gets out slowly, each word heavy, and Orlando knows now that he's not getting away with this. "How long have you been sugar-coating your issues with me, Orlando, did you ever have any intention of telling me that wasn't 'accidental' -- God damn it, would you fucking look at me?"
It's that order that breaks everything loose, and Orlando looks, and then he launches himself, gripping Elijah's shoulders and shoving him back. "It's that," he grits out, staring into Elijah's eyes. "It's that fucking sense of expectancy you carry around, that everyone will always be honest with you, that everyone always tells you what they're feeling, because you're their friend, everyone's friend, and it all hangs on you, doesn't it? The friendships, the honesty, the fucking reasonableness, so fucking smart and willing to talk, the consummate professional, cheerful at five in the goddamned morning and never complaining when the feet come off, like you're the actual fucking Ring-bearer even here. No one can touch you, no one comes near you even though you could have anyone, we're all just..." Orlando slumps as he realizes that he's said it all out loud, everything. All the reasons he loves and hates Elijah and can make neither confession.
"We're all just hacks next to you," he sighs, and he lets go of Elijah's shoulders, turning away again. Just as soon as Elijah leaves, because Christ, surely he's about to, Orlando is going to throw last night's clothes and his toothbrush into a satchel and go back to his own flat, and that galls him. He hasn't slept there in days, and he can almost feel the cold, stale air already.
The silence goes on so long that Orlando actually thinks for a second that Elijah somehow slipped out, silently closing the door behind him, and he dares to look. Elijah's just staring, eyebrows drawn together in something like worried anger, and Orlando is suddenly seized with the knowledge, the sheer undeniability of what he's done. Now, there's just the interminably long moment between this standing and staring and Elijah throwing him out.
"You fucking asshole," Elijah breathes. "All this time we've been seeing each other, and you dump this shit on me now?"
Orlando's throat closes. All he can do is nod, a half-assed acknowledgement of the mess he's just made. Has been making since day one.
"I fucking hate that pedestal," Elijah goes on, very quietly. "You're the one I thought wasn't putting me on it, and finding out you won't even talk to me because of it is..." He shakes his head. "Go home."
God, and even though he'd just been plotting to do exactly that, Orlando knows if he walks, it's over.
But there's nothing to do but walk.
~ ~ ~ ~
Elijah watches, as painful as it is, because it's more painful not to. The days since that fight have dragged out miserably, and the grand irony in it all is that suddenly, Elijah can't be that consummate professional Orlando made him out to be. He drops his lines, he forgets his script in odd places, he's surly in the mornings because he isn't sleeping at night. Peter's asked him about it, and Viggo, and Sean, and if anyone else does, Lijah thinks he might just snap and start screaming at people.
But he watches Orlando in spite of all of this, wanting it back, God help him. He can't stop wanting it back, even just the way it was, with Orlando sugar-coating everything important and snarking about the rest. That makes Elijah angry, the fact that he still wants it, so he turns away, but he catches himself watching again later. He doesn't realize he's giving a look close to the one that first gave Orlando hope, only this one is heavy with regret instead of invitation. He is, however, very aware that Orlando hasn't even asked after him, hasn't spoken to him outside of professional necessity, and Elijah feels that keenly.
I told him to go, Elijah realizes, and this time, when he looks over, Orlando is watching him back, and he doesn't look away.
So when the shoot ends for the day, as late as it is, as crazy and stupid as it must be to try to do anything but sleep on a work night, Elijah goes to Orlando's. He hates the look on Orlando's face as he opens the door, a little scared, a little petulant, a little hopeful, and as he pushes inside, he drops his head, unwilling to look.
"I'm sorry," says Elijah without meaning to, and then he just goes on, and it's all pouring out of him in much the same way he thinks it did out of Orlando that day: "If you really think I see myself like that, then...I can't...we don't have anything, and maybe we never did. I just can't stand the idea that you see me that way, because if that's...if you do, then..." And he sucks in a breath and shakes his head. "You can't feel the way I do if you're holding me at arm's length like that."
The confession is so raw and simple that Orlando grabs Elijah and hugs him hard, sighing into his hair. Grateful but still a little afraid, Elijah hugs back, and he doesn't mean for them to be kissing, but suddenly they are, and then Orlando's hands are all over, tugging at clothes, and God help him, Elijah's are, too. Elijah doesn't want to fall into bed like this, but as has always been the case with Orlando, he can't help himself with all that smooth skin revealing itself, the curves and angles of an incredibly fit body and the wanting that has somehow shocked Elijah since day one. He realizes even as Orlando's pushing him toward the couch, tugging off shoes and jeans, even as Orlando's mouth is closing over his cock, that Elijah, he keeps a pedestal, too, and Orlando's always been high on it. With Orlando, dangerously gorgeous, sexy Orli who could have anyone, the prevailing thought has always been Why is he with me?
And then Orli's mouth drives out thought, even apology, wet and warm suction on Elijah's dick, tongue sliding up and down, and all Elijah can do is cup Orlando's head in his hands and groan, hips pumping up restlessly.
"This..." he manages to hitch out, and then it's interrupted by a gasp before he can speak again, "this doesn't fix anything."
Orlando lets out a grunt -- could be consent, could be argument -- it doesn't matter, as long as he doesn't stop. But then he is stopping, grabbing Elijah's hand and all but dragging him to the bedroom where the lube and the condoms and the bed are, and Elijah writhes on his stomach as Orli's long fingers push into him, and he goes still, almost holding his breath, when they're replaced by Orli's dick. Elijah doesn't know about Orlando's brief, angry fantasies of somehow punishing Elijah with rough sex, but he knows something's different when Orlando starts to fuck him with slow, even tenderness. Orlando isn't biting this time, he's kissing, sometimes licking across Elijah's shoulders, and it just makes Elijah want him more, harder, faster.
"Do it," Elijah gasps, "come on, do it, lay some kind of claim, damn you, fuck me."
"I am," Orlando whispers. "I am, you're mine, you know it." The words fall out on little panting breaths, and even now, in the heat of the moment, he has to believe that Elijah agrees with him. After everything, all the hiding of truths, he has to have some sort of sign that Elijah still wants this, and a look or a touch isn't going to do it this time.
There's a long, long pause, and then Elijah finally answers, "I am yours," and he feels his own surprise. They're fucked up, the two of them, bickering over music and stupid shit and hiding all the big, important questions, but somehow, they belong together. Maybe it's only a tight fit because they can't with anyone else, but it is a fit, after all.
Climax isn't a blinding and spectacular thing this time; it's a little frantic, a little clawing, but ultimately, it's just a relief, and then Orlando's tugging Elijah into his arms, as if by holding on physically, he could undo the damage of the past several days.
"You're an asshole," Elijah murmurs against Orlando's chest. "I love you."
"I know," Orlando answers back. "I know."
"Do you get it, then? Are you listening to me?"
Orlando hesitates, but there's only one true answer. "Yeah." Even that is a huge admission. If he listens now, really hears Elijah, he's going to have to continue to listen and hear, and that...Orlando's never done that before.
"Good," Elijah sighs, and suddenly they're both in the same place, in a stunned little pocket together, and it hits them both that maybe it is good. It really is better this way instead of sugar-coated.
End.
Author:
padawanhilaryFandom/Pairing: LOTRPS, Orlando/Elijah
Rating/Warnings: NC-17,
Word Count: +/- 2600
Song Prompt: "Sing Me Spanish Techno"
Summary: Orlando has no idea how Elijah can be so fucking perky when their relationship is falling apart.
Disclaimer: I don't actually believe these two ever shagged, and neither should you.
Notes: Not beta-read.
Orlando dangles the remote idly, glowering at the TV. He hasn't even got the sound on, but it isn't as though what's on -- some contest show, apparently -- holds any interest for him.
Elijah's in the kitchen bopping around to some perky, jaunty song, something he borrowed from Billy, Orlando suspects, and Orli's just sick of it, the sugar-coated, ADD, not-quite-club music. It isn't as though Orlando can get away with streaming Dylan out of the speakers, anyway.
"Elijah," Orlando calls, tipping his chin up, and then louder, as he's either ignored or goes unheard, "'Lijah."
"Huh, what?" Elijah says, turning, setting the knife down that he was using to annihilate a block of cheese.
"It's loud." Orlando turns rather petulantly back to the TV. "Turn it down, please."
Elijah lets out a disbelieving snort. "It's not loud," he says, and he glances at his boom box to check. "It's not loud." He shakes his head, watching Orlando expectantly.
And Orlando can feel the fight brewing the way tea stains water, slowly, almost an ooze, but he is helpless to stop himself. "It's annoying," he amends, voice too careful, "and I'd rather not be listening to it right now; I don't like it."
"Well, if you don't like it," and Elijah tilts his head irritably and punches the eject button like it's offended him, "that's different. You could've just said that."
Letting out a pissed-off huff, Orlando kills the television and stands. "I shouldn't fucking have to say that," he mutters, heading for the bedroom, "because you know I fucking hate that pop-rock shite you listen to."
"Oh," Elijah throws his hands up and rolls his eyes, then follows; Orlando knows Elijah hates it when he walks out of the room, but that, too, is something he can't seem to help right now. "Now it's shite, is it?" he demands, straining the accent badly. "If you want to insult me, just go ahead and do it, why hide behind my CD collection?"
Orlando knows when he turns back to face Elijah, always so hard to do when they're fighting and those beautiful eyes are filled with that ugly temper, that he's about to make a mistake. It's abundantly clear to him even as the words bubble up, and he has an almost out-of-body understanding that he's about to fuck this for good, but it all comes out anyway:
"I can't fucking understand how you can listen to that shite, it has no substance, no meaning, and you're bouncing around the fucking kitchen like everything's fine when you know good and goddamned well that it isn't." And he blinks, filling up with a slow kind of horror as a matching expression dawns on Elijah's face.
"I..." For a second, Elijah looks as though he's going to either cry or vomit, and Orlando hates that right now, the sheer ease and intensity of expression that will win Elijah whatever role he wants for the rest of his life. "It isn't fine?" he asks at last, sounding like Orlando kicked him, and it makes Orlando want to kick himself. It makes him want to gather Elijah up and take the words back, no, no, I'm sorry, everything's fine, it's all fine, and kiss him until that beaten-dog look goes away.
There's so much to say, though, so much to process, and no amount of fervent backpedaling will fix that. "No," Orlando scowls, turning away, and he goes into the little loo to fuck around with his hair and wash his hands and anything that will keep him from making eye contact, though meeting his own eyes in the mirror isn't exactly palatable right now, either. "It isn't fine, and it hasn't been fine in ages, and you know it."
"No I don't." That incredulous snort is back, and Orlando closes his eyes; the temper will be gone from Elijah's face and in its place, that half-mocking expression that says Orlando's wrong. And he wonders why I can't look at him. "Why would I know it? You've never -- you have a problem with me? And you never said anything? What isn't fine, Orli? You'd better tell me, because I have a feeling it's a little fucking bigger than the fact that I'm listening to music you're not keen on."
Orlando's trapped, now, with nothing to say and nowhere to go, because he can't tell the truth. He can't tell Elijah that he himself is jealous, fundamentally annoyed and envious of his lover's experience, his acting chops, his ease with the others, and that's coloring everything these days, even the sex. Especially the sex, when Orlando's fucking Elijah into the bed and Elijah's all but screaming with it, Orlando can't possibly tell him that he doesn't want it to be good sometimes, he wants it to be punishment. For being what Orlando's never managed to be: real.
"Forget it," Orli mutters toward the sink. "Just never mind."
"I don't think I can do that," Elijah says in that same incredulous tone. "You don't get to tell me things aren't okay between us and then not tell me why."
"I can't explain it," Orlando says, leaning both palms on the counter and curling his hands. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, that's just not on." Orlando can hear Elijah moving closer, and he can't stand it. "Whether or not you wish you hadn't said anything is pointless, now -- you said it, and I deserve an answer after...what, four months? Almost five that we've been together?"
Five, almost six, Orlando corrects mentally, but he supposes his timeline's different from Elijah's; Elijah's goes from first date to now, Orlando's goes from the first time he saw Elijah look at him that way, with that weight in his gaze that made Orli's breath go short. That was when Orlando knew he wasn't lusting alone, so he counts from there. The prevailing thought has always been Why is he with me? and so Orlando has stockpiled precious looks, touches, kisses, as an oblique sort of proof it's all real.
"I said I can't explain it," Orlando insists, voice going quieter. "Look, it's just me, all right? It's nothing to do with you."
"How are things not fine?" Elijah gets out slowly, each word heavy, and Orlando knows now that he's not getting away with this. "How long have you been sugar-coating your issues with me, Orlando, did you ever have any intention of telling me that wasn't 'accidental' -- God damn it, would you fucking look at me?"
It's that order that breaks everything loose, and Orlando looks, and then he launches himself, gripping Elijah's shoulders and shoving him back. "It's that," he grits out, staring into Elijah's eyes. "It's that fucking sense of expectancy you carry around, that everyone will always be honest with you, that everyone always tells you what they're feeling, because you're their friend, everyone's friend, and it all hangs on you, doesn't it? The friendships, the honesty, the fucking reasonableness, so fucking smart and willing to talk, the consummate professional, cheerful at five in the goddamned morning and never complaining when the feet come off, like you're the actual fucking Ring-bearer even here. No one can touch you, no one comes near you even though you could have anyone, we're all just..." Orlando slumps as he realizes that he's said it all out loud, everything. All the reasons he loves and hates Elijah and can make neither confession.
"We're all just hacks next to you," he sighs, and he lets go of Elijah's shoulders, turning away again. Just as soon as Elijah leaves, because Christ, surely he's about to, Orlando is going to throw last night's clothes and his toothbrush into a satchel and go back to his own flat, and that galls him. He hasn't slept there in days, and he can almost feel the cold, stale air already.
The silence goes on so long that Orlando actually thinks for a second that Elijah somehow slipped out, silently closing the door behind him, and he dares to look. Elijah's just staring, eyebrows drawn together in something like worried anger, and Orlando is suddenly seized with the knowledge, the sheer undeniability of what he's done. Now, there's just the interminably long moment between this standing and staring and Elijah throwing him out.
"You fucking asshole," Elijah breathes. "All this time we've been seeing each other, and you dump this shit on me now?"
Orlando's throat closes. All he can do is nod, a half-assed acknowledgement of the mess he's just made. Has been making since day one.
"I fucking hate that pedestal," Elijah goes on, very quietly. "You're the one I thought wasn't putting me on it, and finding out you won't even talk to me because of it is..." He shakes his head. "Go home."
God, and even though he'd just been plotting to do exactly that, Orlando knows if he walks, it's over.
But there's nothing to do but walk.
~ ~ ~ ~
Elijah watches, as painful as it is, because it's more painful not to. The days since that fight have dragged out miserably, and the grand irony in it all is that suddenly, Elijah can't be that consummate professional Orlando made him out to be. He drops his lines, he forgets his script in odd places, he's surly in the mornings because he isn't sleeping at night. Peter's asked him about it, and Viggo, and Sean, and if anyone else does, Lijah thinks he might just snap and start screaming at people.
But he watches Orlando in spite of all of this, wanting it back, God help him. He can't stop wanting it back, even just the way it was, with Orlando sugar-coating everything important and snarking about the rest. That makes Elijah angry, the fact that he still wants it, so he turns away, but he catches himself watching again later. He doesn't realize he's giving a look close to the one that first gave Orlando hope, only this one is heavy with regret instead of invitation. He is, however, very aware that Orlando hasn't even asked after him, hasn't spoken to him outside of professional necessity, and Elijah feels that keenly.
I told him to go, Elijah realizes, and this time, when he looks over, Orlando is watching him back, and he doesn't look away.
So when the shoot ends for the day, as late as it is, as crazy and stupid as it must be to try to do anything but sleep on a work night, Elijah goes to Orlando's. He hates the look on Orlando's face as he opens the door, a little scared, a little petulant, a little hopeful, and as he pushes inside, he drops his head, unwilling to look.
"I'm sorry," says Elijah without meaning to, and then he just goes on, and it's all pouring out of him in much the same way he thinks it did out of Orlando that day: "If you really think I see myself like that, then...I can't...we don't have anything, and maybe we never did. I just can't stand the idea that you see me that way, because if that's...if you do, then..." And he sucks in a breath and shakes his head. "You can't feel the way I do if you're holding me at arm's length like that."
The confession is so raw and simple that Orlando grabs Elijah and hugs him hard, sighing into his hair. Grateful but still a little afraid, Elijah hugs back, and he doesn't mean for them to be kissing, but suddenly they are, and then Orlando's hands are all over, tugging at clothes, and God help him, Elijah's are, too. Elijah doesn't want to fall into bed like this, but as has always been the case with Orlando, he can't help himself with all that smooth skin revealing itself, the curves and angles of an incredibly fit body and the wanting that has somehow shocked Elijah since day one. He realizes even as Orlando's pushing him toward the couch, tugging off shoes and jeans, even as Orlando's mouth is closing over his cock, that Elijah, he keeps a pedestal, too, and Orlando's always been high on it. With Orlando, dangerously gorgeous, sexy Orli who could have anyone, the prevailing thought has always been Why is he with me?
And then Orli's mouth drives out thought, even apology, wet and warm suction on Elijah's dick, tongue sliding up and down, and all Elijah can do is cup Orlando's head in his hands and groan, hips pumping up restlessly.
"This..." he manages to hitch out, and then it's interrupted by a gasp before he can speak again, "this doesn't fix anything."
Orlando lets out a grunt -- could be consent, could be argument -- it doesn't matter, as long as he doesn't stop. But then he is stopping, grabbing Elijah's hand and all but dragging him to the bedroom where the lube and the condoms and the bed are, and Elijah writhes on his stomach as Orli's long fingers push into him, and he goes still, almost holding his breath, when they're replaced by Orli's dick. Elijah doesn't know about Orlando's brief, angry fantasies of somehow punishing Elijah with rough sex, but he knows something's different when Orlando starts to fuck him with slow, even tenderness. Orlando isn't biting this time, he's kissing, sometimes licking across Elijah's shoulders, and it just makes Elijah want him more, harder, faster.
"Do it," Elijah gasps, "come on, do it, lay some kind of claim, damn you, fuck me."
"I am," Orlando whispers. "I am, you're mine, you know it." The words fall out on little panting breaths, and even now, in the heat of the moment, he has to believe that Elijah agrees with him. After everything, all the hiding of truths, he has to have some sort of sign that Elijah still wants this, and a look or a touch isn't going to do it this time.
There's a long, long pause, and then Elijah finally answers, "I am yours," and he feels his own surprise. They're fucked up, the two of them, bickering over music and stupid shit and hiding all the big, important questions, but somehow, they belong together. Maybe it's only a tight fit because they can't with anyone else, but it is a fit, after all.
Climax isn't a blinding and spectacular thing this time; it's a little frantic, a little clawing, but ultimately, it's just a relief, and then Orlando's tugging Elijah into his arms, as if by holding on physically, he could undo the damage of the past several days.
"You're an asshole," Elijah murmurs against Orlando's chest. "I love you."
"I know," Orlando answers back. "I know."
"Do you get it, then? Are you listening to me?"
Orlando hesitates, but there's only one true answer. "Yeah." Even that is a huge admission. If he listens now, really hears Elijah, he's going to have to continue to listen and hear, and that...Orlando's never done that before.
"Good," Elijah sighs, and suddenly they're both in the same place, in a stunned little pocket together, and it hits them both that maybe it is good. It really is better this way instead of sugar-coated.
End.
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It has such raw intensity, such an acute feeling of reality. Men are like that, young men especially, hiding their feelings even from themselves because it’s too much to face. You captured it so well.
You also caught that feeling of need that neither can deny but find so hard to acknowledge. And the sex at the end was just perfect. If it had been fireworks exploding, spectacular, mind blowing sex it wouldn’t have been right. Gently, less earth shattering but more heartfelt love making was just what was needed.
I am so pleased I read this little gem of a story, it really is wonderful. Thank you.
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She absolutely ROCKS!
I loved this, so much raw emotion in such an economically structured fic. Brilliant.
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um, wow.
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