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fellowshippers2007-04-30 09:43 am
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2007-04-30 09:43 am
Entry tags:
Drabble Dump
I had some drabbles in various pairings sitting around on my hard drive, so I decided to post them all at once.
Orlando’s dishes were all completely mismatched.
Mostly it was the fault of his infamous house parties, and the broken glasses that ensued, when the following afternoon the guilty party (if he remembered) or Sean Astin (if he didn’t) would show up with a set of two or four or six new glasses, and then half of those would get broken again.
There were also plates that had been replaced, and a bowl or two, but the most significant was the coffee mug.
The bright orange, slightly offensive mug had never been replaced, and Orlando didn’t want it to be. In fact, he had asked Elijah not to replace it, because he didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to replace that moment.
The bright orange shards still sat, wrapped in plastic film for safety, on a top shelf above hobbit-height where no one but Orlando would notice them. They were a physical reminder of that morning, after one of said parties, when Elijah, catching him completely unawares, had snuck up from behind and sunk teeth, just slightly enveloped by a comforting pillow of suctioning lips, into a lean column of neck.
Never interrupt a man while he’s enjoying his morning coffee, Orlando had muttered, but didn’t really seem to care when he swept an array of party debris (a few more glasses were broken) from the kitchen table and hefted Elijah neatly on top of it, breakfasting on pliant lips and alabaster skin.
The Shards of Coffee Cup, Elijah named them, almost reverently, and Orlando would always look on them with a smile.
The landscape flew by outside the train, almost too fast. The five years since he had moved to LA suddenly wasn’t enough to decide what to say to Billy, now.
“You can come home anytime you want to, you know.” Billy had kissed the corner of his mouth, gently. Dom had nodded but didn’t think it was true.
Five years later, Dom was standing in Glasgow at the address scribbled on his hand.
“I decided to come home.” Billy stared, accepted a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, and introduced Dom to his new girlfriend. Too much time.
There is something surreal in the air. Something unnerving, that doesn't have a name or an origin. Do you know that feeling you get sometimes, that crawl in your spine, that itch that's impossible to scratch? You get it after a disturbing film, a strange encounter, an eerie song.
I don't know where it came from, this time. I'm not quite sure, and so I have a few beers, pick up my guitar, try to curb or derail it, try to set the feeling on another track altogether. Try to confuse it.
It doesn't work, of course, never does with this sort of a feeling. I make myself busy, but you start to hear things in the corners, in the shadows. You start to wonder if you might be going crazy. Everything becomes dramatic; you are the character in the film, in the disturbing novel. You are the one who is slowly going insane.
The door bangs open, loose in its hinges, and Dominic takes one look and he knows. He presses me into his arms, into a tight hug and the skim of soft lips over the curve of my ear and it is not all right, but it is getting there. He's good at that.
(thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lireeli for beta on this one)
L'aube se lève. La rue est silencieuse; tout le monde est endormi. Mais Orlando est impatient, et il est loin de chez lui.
"Mon amour…" appelle Viggo de la chambre, "Reviens te coucher."
"Dans une minute," répond-il distraitement. La lune brille sur le balcon, petites tâches de lit. Il les regarde, et soupire. Sa vie pèse sur ses épaules; la distance jusqu'au lit est si grande. Il pense à l'Angleterre, aux vents glacés d'hiver et à la plage, à Brighton, à sa tante. L'homme dans le lit, dans la chambre proche, ne fait pas partie de ces souvenirs: il vient d'un autre temps, d'un autre lieu.
Orlando soupire et retourne au lit. Il y aura un autre jour. Maitenant, il est temps de dormir.
The bathroom that was yours still smells vaguely like musk and deodorant and Ivory soap. If I lean at just the right angle whilst brushing my teeth in the sink that was yours, I imagine that I can smell you—that you are right there behind me, shaving everything but that stubbly excuse for a goatee in the centre of your chin, that little patch of hair that only makes me love you more. Present tense, because I can't stop, because I am addicted and still make your God-awful coffee each morning in hopes that someday we'll live together again.
Orlando’s dishes were all completely mismatched.
Mostly it was the fault of his infamous house parties, and the broken glasses that ensued, when the following afternoon the guilty party (if he remembered) or Sean Astin (if he didn’t) would show up with a set of two or four or six new glasses, and then half of those would get broken again.
There were also plates that had been replaced, and a bowl or two, but the most significant was the coffee mug.
The bright orange, slightly offensive mug had never been replaced, and Orlando didn’t want it to be. In fact, he had asked Elijah not to replace it, because he didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to replace that moment.
The bright orange shards still sat, wrapped in plastic film for safety, on a top shelf above hobbit-height where no one but Orlando would notice them. They were a physical reminder of that morning, after one of said parties, when Elijah, catching him completely unawares, had snuck up from behind and sunk teeth, just slightly enveloped by a comforting pillow of suctioning lips, into a lean column of neck.
Never interrupt a man while he’s enjoying his morning coffee, Orlando had muttered, but didn’t really seem to care when he swept an array of party debris (a few more glasses were broken) from the kitchen table and hefted Elijah neatly on top of it, breakfasting on pliant lips and alabaster skin.
The Shards of Coffee Cup, Elijah named them, almost reverently, and Orlando would always look on them with a smile.
The landscape flew by outside the train, almost too fast. The five years since he had moved to LA suddenly wasn’t enough to decide what to say to Billy, now.
“You can come home anytime you want to, you know.” Billy had kissed the corner of his mouth, gently. Dom had nodded but didn’t think it was true.
Five years later, Dom was standing in Glasgow at the address scribbled on his hand.
“I decided to come home.” Billy stared, accepted a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, and introduced Dom to his new girlfriend. Too much time.
There is something surreal in the air. Something unnerving, that doesn't have a name or an origin. Do you know that feeling you get sometimes, that crawl in your spine, that itch that's impossible to scratch? You get it after a disturbing film, a strange encounter, an eerie song.
I don't know where it came from, this time. I'm not quite sure, and so I have a few beers, pick up my guitar, try to curb or derail it, try to set the feeling on another track altogether. Try to confuse it.
It doesn't work, of course, never does with this sort of a feeling. I make myself busy, but you start to hear things in the corners, in the shadows. You start to wonder if you might be going crazy. Everything becomes dramatic; you are the character in the film, in the disturbing novel. You are the one who is slowly going insane.
The door bangs open, loose in its hinges, and Dominic takes one look and he knows. He presses me into his arms, into a tight hug and the skim of soft lips over the curve of my ear and it is not all right, but it is getting there. He's good at that.
(thanks to
lireeli for beta on this one)L'aube se lève. La rue est silencieuse; tout le monde est endormi. Mais Orlando est impatient, et il est loin de chez lui.
"Mon amour…" appelle Viggo de la chambre, "Reviens te coucher."
"Dans une minute," répond-il distraitement. La lune brille sur le balcon, petites tâches de lit. Il les regarde, et soupire. Sa vie pèse sur ses épaules; la distance jusqu'au lit est si grande. Il pense à l'Angleterre, aux vents glacés d'hiver et à la plage, à Brighton, à sa tante. L'homme dans le lit, dans la chambre proche, ne fait pas partie de ces souvenirs: il vient d'un autre temps, d'un autre lieu.
Orlando soupire et retourne au lit. Il y aura un autre jour. Maitenant, il est temps de dormir.
The bathroom that was yours still smells vaguely like musk and deodorant and Ivory soap. If I lean at just the right angle whilst brushing my teeth in the sink that was yours, I imagine that I can smell you—that you are right there behind me, shaving everything but that stubbly excuse for a goatee in the centre of your chin, that little patch of hair that only makes me love you more. Present tense, because I can't stop, because I am addicted and still make your God-awful coffee each morning in hopes that someday we'll live together again.
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