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fellowshippers2003-10-24 10:58 am
thoughts-appear.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-10-24 10:58 am
Breath From Another
Title: Breath From Another
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thoughts_appear
Pairing: OB/EW (but not quite 'paired')
Rating: R (a bit of violence, some harsh language)
Summary: Wherein Elijah's got a front row ticket to the event of the year.
Genre: AU - with plenty of 'nods' to our present universe.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, I'm just borrowing them, and so forth.
Notes: For the Two Lines Challenge. And I made an icon to go with it, because I'm *thorough* like that. :)
Comments would be appreciated, I'm curious to see what people think.
And I'm high enough from all the waiting,
to ride a wave on your inhaling
~Frou Frou "Breathe In"
For the last four years, Elijah Wood had been obsessed with Orlando Bloom. Well, who wouldn't be? This was the man critics had pegged as the next David Bowie. Fourteen gold singles, three platinum albums, two Grammy's, five MTV's…the list goes on and on. Elijah had flipped on the radio during the drive home after a stressful night restocking shelves at Blockbuster, and heard the aggressive guitars, hypnotic bass and soothing vocals of Orlando's first hit, "Red Sun Rising." From that day forward, he had been a devoted fan.
He remembered it all very well, running out the very next day after school to his favorite record store. He paused under the poster, staring in awe. That was Orlando Bloom? He was the most beautiful man Elijah had ever seen. He was covered in tattoos, Elijah became very familiar with them in the progression of his obsession. His two favorites were the large "BLOOM" inscribed over his chest, and the bones tattooed over his arm, drawn so that the skeleton hand was always giving the finger. He wore an unreadable expression on the cover of his first record, a self titled critical darling. Elijah had spent many nights stocking New Releases to the songs on this CD. There wasn't a song on it he didn't feel was a musical masterpiece.
A year later, Orlando released his second album, an experimental and creative follow-up that only increased his popularity. His ad campaign included pictures of the singer with his eyes smeared in eyeliner and his mop of curly hair styled in mohawks and spiked dramatically. Both looks became a standard for the singer.
His third album, "Full Bloom," was Elijah's favorite. It was not as much of a success as the first two, but seemed the most raw lyrically. It spoke to Elijah so much that he couldn't even drive while listening to it, any distraction seemed to take away from the power of the music. He might have been just a college student trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his life, but Orlando's music made him feel like maybe he could be more.
After four years of worship, his dream was coming true. Orlando was scheduled to play a concert in Iowa. Elijah had skipped his Biology labs to wait outside the ticket window to get the best possible seats. None of his friends were fans, he'd practically begged his sister Hannah to go to the concert with him.
"Elijah! He's such a whiner, plus I swear he's as queer as a three dollar bill," she'd complained.
"So what?" Elijah had said, still in bliss over receiving the tickets. "Will you go with me or not?"
"Why don't you ask that girl you work with, Liv, was it? That'd be a great first date. You wouldn't have to talk or anything."
Elijah groaned and retreated into his room, slamming the door and turning "Black Hawk Down" to full volume. He flopped down on his bed to read the Rolling Stone interview again, the one where Orlando spoke about his troubled childhood, the accident in which he broke his back, and dropping out of drama school to be a musician. Orlando sidestepped questions about his sexuality, laughed at the idea that he could have been a movie star, and waxed poetic about his song writing process.
Elijah felt like he could relate to the star. Maybe Orlando had been just like him once, a little skinnier and smaller than the other boys in his class. Maybe he'd been picked on, called names and beat up after school. Possibly he'd been the quiet kid, who knew all the answers but never raised his hand. He looked down at the picture, Orlando in concert, shirtless and strumming a guitar. No fucking way.
But he'd known pain, that was something Elijah was sure of. He closed the magazine and allowed Orlando's voice to take him away. At the beginning he had believed that all he wanted was to be Orlando. To be that cool, and that talented and that beautiful. And now he believed that no, he didn't want to be him, he wanted to be *with* him. He wanted that broken man to be his own. To laugh and fight and fuck and scream together. To write songs that made the other want to die. He wanted to be the one waiting in the background while his rock god preached to the masses.
Elijah stood in front of the mirror, patting the sides of his new haircut. It was what the hairdresser called a "faux-hawk." It was spiked up the in the center, but not completely shaved on the sides. Not exactly like Orlando's had been, but still a 'wild look.' He threw on the vintage corduroy jacket and tied his Chucks. He hoped he didn't look like too much of a poseur. He patted his jeans pocket for the ticket, shouted goodbye to his Mom and jumped into his old beat-up truck.
On the way there he listened to Orlando's first CD, singing along loudly, not caring if anyone noticed. He imagined Orlando's flawless face, sculptured cheekbones pouting, his lips snarling as he sang the words they all knew so well. "God, I can't believe it, he'll be right there. Close enough to sweat on me," Elijah thought, tapping the steering wheel in time with the heavy beat.
Elijah was able to cram his way toward the front of the stage, one advantage to being small, and eagerly awaited the beginning of the show. The opening band, a small group of guys from Manchester weren't too bad, "The Dom Monaghan 5." Their singer was a skinny guy with big ears. Elijah thought he might look for their CD sometime.
But all other thoughts were pushed from his head when the lights changed dramatically, and a lone guitar began a steady riff. Orlando entered from beneath the stage, showered in sparks and grabbed the microphone stand aggressively.
"Hello Cedar Rapids," he shouted. "I'm here to kick some ass!"
The crowd cheered and surged forward. Elijah stood on his toes to better see his idol. He looked amazing. He was dressed all in black, with a red belt laced around his pants. His eyes were smeared with black and his hands covered in rings. His sweaty curls already began to drop into his eyes as he sang.
Elijah stood in the crowd, letting those around him mosh and dance. He simply stared, transfixed, silently mouthing ever word in syncopation. He swore a few times Orlando was singing directly to him. He reached out among with the others, in hope of brushing fingers with the rock god.
The two hours were over too soon. Orlando made his first exit, much to the dismay of the electrified crowd. After a bit of suspense, he reappeared to the familiar bass of "Breathe In." Elijah cheered loudly, the song was a rarity, something old that Orlando had never released as a single. He sang along louder than anyone else.
Orlando took his final bow, as the crowd cheered and applauded. Rose petals and glittered showered the stage. Women threw panties and bras. Elijah waited to leave until most of the audience had dispersed.
It was only midnight, and he was much too buzzed from the amazing show to go home. He walked a block or two to the small dive bar he'd heard his brother Zach talking about before. It was bit crowded with concert goers and the regular riff-raff, and so Elijah maneuvered himself up to the bar to get himself a beer. He good naturedly produced ID when they asked, and took his drink from the bar to stand in a corner, maybe watch some people shoot pool.
As he walked to the back, a man unexpectedly stood from his table, bumping into Elijah, and causing him to spill beer all over the man's leather jacket.
The man exploded, "You stupid fuck!"
"I'm sorry," Elijah apologized, backing away from the man.
"You've ruined my jacket you little fag!" he snarled. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Uh…I can give you some money. I'm really sorry, it was an accident…" Elijah stuttered.
"What I think," said the man to his friend, who was now standing at Elijah's other side. "Is that this stupid faggot needs to be taught a lesson, don't you?"
"Fuck yeah," said the friend, a blonde with a Yankees cap jammed on his head.
"Guys," Elijah protested weakly. "We can figure something out, I swear. I mean…you could…"
"Are you from around here, boy?" the man's friend continued. He grabbed Elijah's concert t-shirt in one fist. "Did you come into town to see that cocksucker play his concert? I think you did, and we have a no fags rule around here."
"Yeah, and we're not going to let a little bitch like you fuck up my best jacket," said the first man, dragging Elijah out a side door.
They tossed Elijah out into an alley between the bar and an apartment building. He felt his body slam into the wall, and his cheek scrape the bricks. He heard the men laughing, and knew he should fight back, or run or something. He seemed paralyzed. But it wasn't with fear. It was with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do. There was no way he was going to avoid getting the shit beat out of him, and that's what he thought when the first fist flew.
Elijah blinked a few times, and tried to stand. He'd been slumping on the ground for awhile now, trying to regain his balance. He didn't know how long they fought him, but eventually they'd grown tired, remarked to each other that it wasn't even worth it if he didn't fight back, and kicked him once brutally in the stomach before returning to the bar.
His head ached, his mouth tasted metallic, and every breath made his stomach feel like fire. He pulled himself to a standing position and wiped blood from under his nose, cleaning his hand on a newspaper at his feet. He saw that they'd emptied his wallet as well, that his keys were missing or just buried in the dirt, but his ticket stub was still crammed into his back pocket. There was a person standing at the other end of the alley, almost out on the street.
As he moved towards the other end, the figure was illuminated in a street lamp just outside the alley. Elijah felt dizzy from the walk, and leaned against the other wall of the small enclosure. He caught his breath and began to study the person.
It was a man, and he was smoking. Most of his face was visible in the light, and it showed his vacant expression, his tired eyes smudged with liner. He wore a jacket of thinning leather and a pair of jeans frayed in a way that can only be accumulated in years of abuse. Elijah knew who he was instantly.
He couldn’t move from his slump against the wall. His heart was beating heavily in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. A new surge of adrenaline was making his head suddenly painless as he watched Orlando exhale. He pushed off the wall with his hands.
Orlando blew the smoke slowly out of the corner of his mouth, not noticing Elijah at first. He wiped more blood from his nose and stared. Orlando didn't move, only slouched against his side of the alley more comfortably, catching Elijah's movement in his peripheral vision. Elijah nonchalantly rubbed off the mess and pretended to fumble in his pockets.
It might have been the blows to his head or the rush from the concert, or this new rush of excitement, but he was starting to feel very confident and a kind of bravery he'd never had before. He walked the remaining steps to Orlando's side of the wall, stumbling a bit, and settled just a few feet from the man.
Orlando took a moment to acknowledge him, studying him in the half-light. His expression hardly changed, a bit of a wince in his eyes as he took in the boys bruises and bumps.
Elijah knew without a doubt it was really him. His stomach did flip-flops in apprehension. What do you say when you finally have the one person you've always wanted to talk to? Elijah had spent hours agonizing and fantasizing over what their conversation would be like. Of course, it had never been dreamed like this.
He pulled a cigarette from the smashed pack in his jacket. When he spoke his voice was squeaky and shaky, "Do you have a light?"
Orlando casually tossed him an expensive silver lighter. Elijah wasn't ready, and watched it bounce off the bricks with a clink. He gave Orlando an apologetic glance and dove to retrieve it.
Orlando took a drag on his cigarette and studied him before speaking, "I used to have hair like that."
His voice was quiet and raspy, familiar to the accent Elijah was aware of from interviews. He stopped fumbling with the lighter in his shaking hands and looked over at Orlando, whose expression remained calmly indifferent.
Elijah fought the urge to say, "I know," and instead concentrated strongly on lighting the cigarette in his fingers. This time he succeeded, and took a tiny pull from the filter.
Orlando spoke again, smoke billowing from his nostrils, "What wrong with you? Get in a fight or something?"
Elijah shrugged and tossed the lighter back. Orlando caught it one-handed, and slipped it into his jacket.
Elijah spoke a bit more normally this time, "Yeah, some guy from the bar."
"Oh," Orlando looked around the corner expectantly, throwing his cigarette to the ground.
"Are you waiting for someone?" Elijah asked.
"No," he ground out the filter with one heavy boot. "They're waiting for me."
"Oh," Elijah took a longer drag, trying to play it cool. He exhaled slowly, making a ring.
"You don't have any idea about me, do you?" Orlando seemed genuinely interested in Elijah for the first time. He made eye contact.
"Um, should I?" Elijah was able to play dumb because of his shock. Orlando's eyes on him was making him shiver.
"No, probably not," Orlando laughed and stood up straight. He seemed to be thinking to himself.
"Come over here," he said suddenly.
Elijah stomped on his half smoked stub, and carefully took a few steps closer to the man. Orlando closed the rest of the gap and faced him directly.
"Your eye doesn't look too bad," he said, pointing with one tattooed finger. What happened?"
"Some guy called me a fag."
"And you tried to kick his ass, and lost?"
"No," Elijah swallowed. "I didn't fight back."
This time Orlando made contact with his hand, and touched the arch of his brow. Elijah froze.
"Fuck... You'll have a shiner, but it'll be okay. I've seen worse," he took his hand away. "You're not bad looking, the hair suits you."
"Thank you," Elijah mumbled, looking at his shoes.
Orlando seemed to be looking through him, his face no longer vacant, showing real concern. He leaned even a bit closer, so that Elijah could smell the tobacco on his breath. Elijah squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, even though it hurt.
"Why did he call you a fag?"
"Because it was true," Elijah said, no longer caring.
Orlando blinked slowly and exhaled. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and beer. There was a trace of something else, something Elijah couldn't recognize. He sucked it in, trying to capture it completely.
"What's your name?" Orlando whispered.
"Elijah," he said at the same volume.
"What's yours?" he added, a beat too late.
"I get to know yours but you don't get to know mine," Orlando said, smiling. He then did something that Elijah had been dreaming about for four years.
He lightly pressed his chapped lips against Elijah's. It was a ghost of a kiss, a minor brush, not even enough to transfer moisture from one mouth to another. But it was real, and it was something and it made Elijah's eyes flutter and his entire body tingle.
"You'll be okay kid," Orlando stretched and pulled his body away. "Don't let the fuckers get you down, okay?"
Elijah nodded dumbly, watching as Orlando dusted off his jacket and pushed hair out of his eyes.
"Can't leave them waiting forever," he said, stepping completely out of Elijah's shadow.
Elijah watched him take a few steps back to the street then stop and turn around.
"Hey Elijah," and his name sounded so perfect in that voice. "Catch it this time."
He pitched the lighter to him, and Elijah snatched it in his cupped hands.
"Call it a anonymous donation. I ought to quit anyway," Orlando said smirking.
Elijah watched as he walked down the street, stepping over bums on the sidewalk, stopping at a bench. A sleek black limousine crawled over, and Orlando disappeared inside.
He looked into his right hand, and studied the gift. The metal was still warm from Orlando's touch, and on the bottom engraved in ornate letters was "O.B." He slipped it into his front pocket and stumbled across the alley to recover his keys in the dirt at the other end. At least he hoped they were his, he couldn't quite tell in the dark. He walked through the quiet and dirty streets toward the parking lot, filled with an euphoria that made his broken nose and bruised ribs suddenly painless.
Author:
thoughts_appearPairing: OB/EW (but not quite 'paired')
Rating: R (a bit of violence, some harsh language)
Summary: Wherein Elijah's got a front row ticket to the event of the year.
Genre: AU - with plenty of 'nods' to our present universe.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, I'm just borrowing them, and so forth.
Notes: For the Two Lines Challenge. And I made an icon to go with it, because I'm *thorough* like that. :)
Comments would be appreciated, I'm curious to see what people think.
And I'm high enough from all the waiting,
to ride a wave on your inhaling
~Frou Frou "Breathe In"
For the last four years, Elijah Wood had been obsessed with Orlando Bloom. Well, who wouldn't be? This was the man critics had pegged as the next David Bowie. Fourteen gold singles, three platinum albums, two Grammy's, five MTV's…the list goes on and on. Elijah had flipped on the radio during the drive home after a stressful night restocking shelves at Blockbuster, and heard the aggressive guitars, hypnotic bass and soothing vocals of Orlando's first hit, "Red Sun Rising." From that day forward, he had been a devoted fan.
He remembered it all very well, running out the very next day after school to his favorite record store. He paused under the poster, staring in awe. That was Orlando Bloom? He was the most beautiful man Elijah had ever seen. He was covered in tattoos, Elijah became very familiar with them in the progression of his obsession. His two favorites were the large "BLOOM" inscribed over his chest, and the bones tattooed over his arm, drawn so that the skeleton hand was always giving the finger. He wore an unreadable expression on the cover of his first record, a self titled critical darling. Elijah had spent many nights stocking New Releases to the songs on this CD. There wasn't a song on it he didn't feel was a musical masterpiece.
A year later, Orlando released his second album, an experimental and creative follow-up that only increased his popularity. His ad campaign included pictures of the singer with his eyes smeared in eyeliner and his mop of curly hair styled in mohawks and spiked dramatically. Both looks became a standard for the singer.
His third album, "Full Bloom," was Elijah's favorite. It was not as much of a success as the first two, but seemed the most raw lyrically. It spoke to Elijah so much that he couldn't even drive while listening to it, any distraction seemed to take away from the power of the music. He might have been just a college student trying to figure out what he wanted to do with his life, but Orlando's music made him feel like maybe he could be more.
After four years of worship, his dream was coming true. Orlando was scheduled to play a concert in Iowa. Elijah had skipped his Biology labs to wait outside the ticket window to get the best possible seats. None of his friends were fans, he'd practically begged his sister Hannah to go to the concert with him.
"Elijah! He's such a whiner, plus I swear he's as queer as a three dollar bill," she'd complained.
"So what?" Elijah had said, still in bliss over receiving the tickets. "Will you go with me or not?"
"Why don't you ask that girl you work with, Liv, was it? That'd be a great first date. You wouldn't have to talk or anything."
Elijah groaned and retreated into his room, slamming the door and turning "Black Hawk Down" to full volume. He flopped down on his bed to read the Rolling Stone interview again, the one where Orlando spoke about his troubled childhood, the accident in which he broke his back, and dropping out of drama school to be a musician. Orlando sidestepped questions about his sexuality, laughed at the idea that he could have been a movie star, and waxed poetic about his song writing process.
Elijah felt like he could relate to the star. Maybe Orlando had been just like him once, a little skinnier and smaller than the other boys in his class. Maybe he'd been picked on, called names and beat up after school. Possibly he'd been the quiet kid, who knew all the answers but never raised his hand. He looked down at the picture, Orlando in concert, shirtless and strumming a guitar. No fucking way.
But he'd known pain, that was something Elijah was sure of. He closed the magazine and allowed Orlando's voice to take him away. At the beginning he had believed that all he wanted was to be Orlando. To be that cool, and that talented and that beautiful. And now he believed that no, he didn't want to be him, he wanted to be *with* him. He wanted that broken man to be his own. To laugh and fight and fuck and scream together. To write songs that made the other want to die. He wanted to be the one waiting in the background while his rock god preached to the masses.
Elijah stood in front of the mirror, patting the sides of his new haircut. It was what the hairdresser called a "faux-hawk." It was spiked up the in the center, but not completely shaved on the sides. Not exactly like Orlando's had been, but still a 'wild look.' He threw on the vintage corduroy jacket and tied his Chucks. He hoped he didn't look like too much of a poseur. He patted his jeans pocket for the ticket, shouted goodbye to his Mom and jumped into his old beat-up truck.
On the way there he listened to Orlando's first CD, singing along loudly, not caring if anyone noticed. He imagined Orlando's flawless face, sculptured cheekbones pouting, his lips snarling as he sang the words they all knew so well. "God, I can't believe it, he'll be right there. Close enough to sweat on me," Elijah thought, tapping the steering wheel in time with the heavy beat.
Elijah was able to cram his way toward the front of the stage, one advantage to being small, and eagerly awaited the beginning of the show. The opening band, a small group of guys from Manchester weren't too bad, "The Dom Monaghan 5." Their singer was a skinny guy with big ears. Elijah thought he might look for their CD sometime.
But all other thoughts were pushed from his head when the lights changed dramatically, and a lone guitar began a steady riff. Orlando entered from beneath the stage, showered in sparks and grabbed the microphone stand aggressively.
"Hello Cedar Rapids," he shouted. "I'm here to kick some ass!"
The crowd cheered and surged forward. Elijah stood on his toes to better see his idol. He looked amazing. He was dressed all in black, with a red belt laced around his pants. His eyes were smeared with black and his hands covered in rings. His sweaty curls already began to drop into his eyes as he sang.
Elijah stood in the crowd, letting those around him mosh and dance. He simply stared, transfixed, silently mouthing ever word in syncopation. He swore a few times Orlando was singing directly to him. He reached out among with the others, in hope of brushing fingers with the rock god.
The two hours were over too soon. Orlando made his first exit, much to the dismay of the electrified crowd. After a bit of suspense, he reappeared to the familiar bass of "Breathe In." Elijah cheered loudly, the song was a rarity, something old that Orlando had never released as a single. He sang along louder than anyone else.
Orlando took his final bow, as the crowd cheered and applauded. Rose petals and glittered showered the stage. Women threw panties and bras. Elijah waited to leave until most of the audience had dispersed.
It was only midnight, and he was much too buzzed from the amazing show to go home. He walked a block or two to the small dive bar he'd heard his brother Zach talking about before. It was bit crowded with concert goers and the regular riff-raff, and so Elijah maneuvered himself up to the bar to get himself a beer. He good naturedly produced ID when they asked, and took his drink from the bar to stand in a corner, maybe watch some people shoot pool.
As he walked to the back, a man unexpectedly stood from his table, bumping into Elijah, and causing him to spill beer all over the man's leather jacket.
The man exploded, "You stupid fuck!"
"I'm sorry," Elijah apologized, backing away from the man.
"You've ruined my jacket you little fag!" he snarled. "What are you going to do about it?"
"Uh…I can give you some money. I'm really sorry, it was an accident…" Elijah stuttered.
"What I think," said the man to his friend, who was now standing at Elijah's other side. "Is that this stupid faggot needs to be taught a lesson, don't you?"
"Fuck yeah," said the friend, a blonde with a Yankees cap jammed on his head.
"Guys," Elijah protested weakly. "We can figure something out, I swear. I mean…you could…"
"Are you from around here, boy?" the man's friend continued. He grabbed Elijah's concert t-shirt in one fist. "Did you come into town to see that cocksucker play his concert? I think you did, and we have a no fags rule around here."
"Yeah, and we're not going to let a little bitch like you fuck up my best jacket," said the first man, dragging Elijah out a side door.
They tossed Elijah out into an alley between the bar and an apartment building. He felt his body slam into the wall, and his cheek scrape the bricks. He heard the men laughing, and knew he should fight back, or run or something. He seemed paralyzed. But it wasn't with fear. It was with the knowledge that there was nothing he could do. There was no way he was going to avoid getting the shit beat out of him, and that's what he thought when the first fist flew.
Elijah blinked a few times, and tried to stand. He'd been slumping on the ground for awhile now, trying to regain his balance. He didn't know how long they fought him, but eventually they'd grown tired, remarked to each other that it wasn't even worth it if he didn't fight back, and kicked him once brutally in the stomach before returning to the bar.
His head ached, his mouth tasted metallic, and every breath made his stomach feel like fire. He pulled himself to a standing position and wiped blood from under his nose, cleaning his hand on a newspaper at his feet. He saw that they'd emptied his wallet as well, that his keys were missing or just buried in the dirt, but his ticket stub was still crammed into his back pocket. There was a person standing at the other end of the alley, almost out on the street.
As he moved towards the other end, the figure was illuminated in a street lamp just outside the alley. Elijah felt dizzy from the walk, and leaned against the other wall of the small enclosure. He caught his breath and began to study the person.
It was a man, and he was smoking. Most of his face was visible in the light, and it showed his vacant expression, his tired eyes smudged with liner. He wore a jacket of thinning leather and a pair of jeans frayed in a way that can only be accumulated in years of abuse. Elijah knew who he was instantly.
He couldn’t move from his slump against the wall. His heart was beating heavily in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. A new surge of adrenaline was making his head suddenly painless as he watched Orlando exhale. He pushed off the wall with his hands.
Orlando blew the smoke slowly out of the corner of his mouth, not noticing Elijah at first. He wiped more blood from his nose and stared. Orlando didn't move, only slouched against his side of the alley more comfortably, catching Elijah's movement in his peripheral vision. Elijah nonchalantly rubbed off the mess and pretended to fumble in his pockets.
It might have been the blows to his head or the rush from the concert, or this new rush of excitement, but he was starting to feel very confident and a kind of bravery he'd never had before. He walked the remaining steps to Orlando's side of the wall, stumbling a bit, and settled just a few feet from the man.
Orlando took a moment to acknowledge him, studying him in the half-light. His expression hardly changed, a bit of a wince in his eyes as he took in the boys bruises and bumps.
Elijah knew without a doubt it was really him. His stomach did flip-flops in apprehension. What do you say when you finally have the one person you've always wanted to talk to? Elijah had spent hours agonizing and fantasizing over what their conversation would be like. Of course, it had never been dreamed like this.
He pulled a cigarette from the smashed pack in his jacket. When he spoke his voice was squeaky and shaky, "Do you have a light?"
Orlando casually tossed him an expensive silver lighter. Elijah wasn't ready, and watched it bounce off the bricks with a clink. He gave Orlando an apologetic glance and dove to retrieve it.
Orlando took a drag on his cigarette and studied him before speaking, "I used to have hair like that."
His voice was quiet and raspy, familiar to the accent Elijah was aware of from interviews. He stopped fumbling with the lighter in his shaking hands and looked over at Orlando, whose expression remained calmly indifferent.
Elijah fought the urge to say, "I know," and instead concentrated strongly on lighting the cigarette in his fingers. This time he succeeded, and took a tiny pull from the filter.
Orlando spoke again, smoke billowing from his nostrils, "What wrong with you? Get in a fight or something?"
Elijah shrugged and tossed the lighter back. Orlando caught it one-handed, and slipped it into his jacket.
Elijah spoke a bit more normally this time, "Yeah, some guy from the bar."
"Oh," Orlando looked around the corner expectantly, throwing his cigarette to the ground.
"Are you waiting for someone?" Elijah asked.
"No," he ground out the filter with one heavy boot. "They're waiting for me."
"Oh," Elijah took a longer drag, trying to play it cool. He exhaled slowly, making a ring.
"You don't have any idea about me, do you?" Orlando seemed genuinely interested in Elijah for the first time. He made eye contact.
"Um, should I?" Elijah was able to play dumb because of his shock. Orlando's eyes on him was making him shiver.
"No, probably not," Orlando laughed and stood up straight. He seemed to be thinking to himself.
"Come over here," he said suddenly.
Elijah stomped on his half smoked stub, and carefully took a few steps closer to the man. Orlando closed the rest of the gap and faced him directly.
"Your eye doesn't look too bad," he said, pointing with one tattooed finger. What happened?"
"Some guy called me a fag."
"And you tried to kick his ass, and lost?"
"No," Elijah swallowed. "I didn't fight back."
This time Orlando made contact with his hand, and touched the arch of his brow. Elijah froze.
"Fuck... You'll have a shiner, but it'll be okay. I've seen worse," he took his hand away. "You're not bad looking, the hair suits you."
"Thank you," Elijah mumbled, looking at his shoes.
Orlando seemed to be looking through him, his face no longer vacant, showing real concern. He leaned even a bit closer, so that Elijah could smell the tobacco on his breath. Elijah squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, even though it hurt.
"Why did he call you a fag?"
"Because it was true," Elijah said, no longer caring.
Orlando blinked slowly and exhaled. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes and beer. There was a trace of something else, something Elijah couldn't recognize. He sucked it in, trying to capture it completely.
"What's your name?" Orlando whispered.
"Elijah," he said at the same volume.
"What's yours?" he added, a beat too late.
"I get to know yours but you don't get to know mine," Orlando said, smiling. He then did something that Elijah had been dreaming about for four years.
He lightly pressed his chapped lips against Elijah's. It was a ghost of a kiss, a minor brush, not even enough to transfer moisture from one mouth to another. But it was real, and it was something and it made Elijah's eyes flutter and his entire body tingle.
"You'll be okay kid," Orlando stretched and pulled his body away. "Don't let the fuckers get you down, okay?"
Elijah nodded dumbly, watching as Orlando dusted off his jacket and pushed hair out of his eyes.
"Can't leave them waiting forever," he said, stepping completely out of Elijah's shadow.
Elijah watched him take a few steps back to the street then stop and turn around.
"Hey Elijah," and his name sounded so perfect in that voice. "Catch it this time."
He pitched the lighter to him, and Elijah snatched it in his cupped hands.
"Call it a anonymous donation. I ought to quit anyway," Orlando said smirking.
Elijah watched as he walked down the street, stepping over bums on the sidewalk, stopping at a bench. A sleek black limousine crawled over, and Orlando disappeared inside.
He looked into his right hand, and studied the gift. The metal was still warm from Orlando's touch, and on the bottom engraved in ornate letters was "O.B." He slipped it into his front pocket and stumbled across the alley to recover his keys in the dirt at the other end. At least he hoped they were his, he couldn't quite tell in the dark. He walked through the quiet and dirty streets toward the parking lot, filled with an euphoria that made his broken nose and bruised ribs suddenly painless.
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I'm a sucka for LOTRips AUs, and this one is going into my LJ memories. (Also recc'd it in my LJ, I hope that's alright.)
thanks for sharing! :-)
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Plus I'm honored that you would recommend it to anyone, so thank you very much. :)
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And so I have come to my main point: omfg!!!11!!1! *squealthumpoww* I <3 youuuu.
Actually, I think that was more of my inner-fangirl. But I digress. You did a great great job with characterization. That was the thing that most stuck out for me. The fact that I could see the story happening in some alternate reality really increased its appeal. (Though you included Elijah and Orlando so you were already good in that category) And yes, I loved the ending. Very perfect, and it flowed so well with the rest of the story. Gah. I'm going to stop before I end up building you a shrine or something.
And one more thing, this idea could so easily have turned out to be cheesy as my grandmother's scalloped potatoes (i.e. Elijah turning into a literally-bloody squealing ball of fanboy goo, etcetera) and I think you did a wonderful job of making it not so.
also, skankyful icon. *lick*
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Well, there goes my idea for the sequel where Elijah goes on the internet and tells his tale to the Orlando fangirls and then starts mary-sueing himself in fanfiction, hehe :)
Seriously, this is something I wrote after meeting Mr. Wood. It's really about being a fan, and the thrill of being 'touched' by your idol, literally or figuratively. The lyrics just seemed to sort of fit with that, at least I thought so.
Thank you for such lovely feedback. I'm new at this game, and it is very encouraging.
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...Actually, that would be sort of amusing. Albeit in a twisted sort of way.
being 'touched' by your idol, literally or figuratively
And of course, 'literally' is preferable. ;) Well, I'm still hoping to meet some members of the LotR cast. Maybe it's the fault of the Extended DVDs, but they all seem so nice and approachable. And keep writing, I'd love to see (er, read) more from you :)
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And erm... you met Elijah? Did he give you his lighter? ;) (no really... did he?) *tiny squee*
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I met him rather briefly, along with a few of the other hobbits, and I'm sure he wouldn't be giving up his lighter to anyone, as he seemed rather fond of using it. :)
Thank you...
Re: Thank you...
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great job!