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fellowshippers2003-12-31 02:24 am
abbichicken.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2003-12-31 02:24 am
Fic: Scarification 1/1
Greetings and Salutations:) Have some...slightly messed up fic...
Pairing:Dominic/Elijah
Title: Scarification 1/1
WARNINGS: Does what it says on the tin. Self-harm. Branding. Don't like the idea? Don't read this.
Rating: R?
Archive: Want. Take. Have. Tell me :)
Note: Based on a quote from an interview given by Elijah in this month's SFX magazine. He started it - his idea, not mine ;) Well, not the bit about Dom...that was my idea...
Disclaimer: It's all from my mind, my twisted, entertained mind. I doubt this would happen. Equally, I'd be wrong to say it never would ;)
FB: Please. Yeah. Good.
Thanks: To Tuuli, for encouraging my madness and pointing me here =)
He asks me right out of the blue, and I don’t quite know what to say. The way he’s asking isn’t helping, either. I hadn’t seen the interview ‘til I picked it off his coffee table. Lij has never been too ashamed to hide his appearances in the press; he usually likes to point such things out to us, so the latest article in SFX wasn’t a big deal. Usual stuff about, yes, I’m not a hobbit really, usual bits to encourage the fangirls (put the word “love” in a sentence with the name of any of the rest of the cast, and as long as it wasn’t poor old John, you’d usually set sparks flying round the internet), some random stuff about his new films, and then Lij calling through from the kitchen, where he’s getting beer from the fridge for us;
“What d’you think, Dom?”
I’m flicking through, reading bits as they catch my eye.
“Yeah. Still can’t see you as a football hooligan, mate!”
“Oh fuck off… How far have you got?”
“Bottom of page two.”
“Oh, fuck it!”
“What did you do?”
He comes in and is standing behind me.
“Nothing, but, skip to the middle of page three.”
I skim over the text. Nothing unusual, except, oh Lij, what’s that about?!
“You mean…here?” I point.
“Yeah. What d’you think?”
“Well, whatever makes you happy. And if getting a scar in the place Frodo had one is the kind of thing that’s going to make you happy, then I say fine, you strange, fucked up boy, you. I’d like to know how you’re planning on getting it though – it’ll take quite a mark to scar there…”
“See, I was going to ask you to help me out with that. Like, burn me or something.”
As he says this, I spin round, because staring at him will make the point that I have no idea what to say even clearer. Course, spinning round to find he’s stood there divested of the t-shirt he’d been wearing not two minutes ago is reasonably disorientating, so what I intend to be a concerned and caring – whilst ever so slightly disturbed - stare becomes a bit of a gawp.
“Okay…” I’m choosing my words carefully. “And you ask me because…?”
“You’re not that judgemental. Well, never noticed it in you. We get on. Which is kind of useful. It’s something I’ll have for the rest of my life, and, well, I could try and do it myself, but to be honest, well, I’d rather share the experience. Probably get it on the wrong side if I used a mirror, anyhow!” He laughs. “Come on, you know I like to share!”
“Can’t you get, like, professionals in this kind of thing? Someone to do it for you properly?”
“I don’t know, haven’t really looked into it. But I like the idea of it being between us, just me and someone else who knows what was involved. And I don’t think Sean would fancy it, you know how squeamish he gets. But you, well, you seem best qualified.”
I sit back. “Thought you went to get me a beer?”
He half-smiles. Nicely. “Sure.” Returns to the kitchen, where the sound of clinking glasses tells me he is actually getting it this time.
I’m buying time. It’s not an unappealing idea. And it’s true, I’m not judgemental. You’d have to go a long way from decency before I won’t talk to you any more. And he’s not asking much, well, not from my point of view. I mean, all that pleasure-pain stuff, it makes sense to me. I don’t think that’s what he’s asking me for though, like, in that sense…just saying…I mean…my thoughts tail off into masses of confusion.
I look back to the interview – it’s a memento, right? Like our tattoos. He’s obviously thought about it a fair bit, I mean, it’s not something you just completely randomly mention to journalists without knowing what you’re saying. You don’t want to be branded (pardon the pun) a freak without actually being prepared to go so far as to demonstrate that you are one. And I also know what he means about sharing that kind of experience, because it’ll always be marked on my mind, as well as my body, the day we got those done. The feeling of…group mentality.
Yeah. That. So okay, yeah, sure Elijah, Mr. Elijah Wood, I’ll glad damage your million dollar Hollywood body. I mean, it could go wrong either way, but when I have no objection to speak of, except obviously I don’t want to main the guy or cripple him or anything, I’d be a fool to refuse. Hell, it means you’ll stay this naked. Could I really tell you to fuck off looking like this?
A cold beer is suddenly floating in front of my eyes. Gratefully I clasp it from Elijah’s almost imperceptibly shaking hand, and gulp a little down. He sits opposite me and lights up. He’s still shirtless. I’m finding it hard not to fixate on his figure. He looks good for…Elijah.
“Yeah.”
He looks confused. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Course. Sure. Why not? You want a scar, hell, I’ll give you one. What, you want it burned, cut, branded, stabbed, scratched, frozen?”
He looks blank now. Was that a bit blunt? Not “understanding” enough? Well he started it! His free hand strokes his chest, which appears so smooth it may well be made of plastic. This whole situation would be a lot easier if it was. I try again.
“How squeamish are you?”
He fixes me with those eyes. I’m really attached to the look, like he just wrapped an arm round my neck and is pulling me in. He inhales from the cigarette, which I note from the way the smoke passes between our gaze.
He cocks his head to one side; one corner of his lips twitches upwards. Involuntarily, I follow his gaze, moving my head to the same angle. Then, I could swear, his eyelashes shake. He exhales a cloud of smoke, which breaks the gaze as his huge and upsettingly captivating eyes. Last eyes I saw that were so deep were on this dog that had been tied up outside my local corner shop. Stayed there stroking it for fucking ages. Beautiful creature. Just over being a puppy. I wished I could’ve taken it home with me… but I snap back from the visual memory to the scent of burning flesh.
Elijah is calmly, softly rotating his still-burning cigarette on the inside of his upper left arm. My internal organs jump up to stop him, but my body stays still. I wouldn’t be looking so non-judgemental and willing to help if I had a crisis over this now would I? He’s looking at the heat pushing under the top layers of his skin, watching it turn red and the ash meld and seal the hint of blood at the point of impact. Well after the point at which I think he should have stopped, he pulls the cigarette away and rubs the end between his fingers, sparks and shreds of tobacco gently dripping from his hand. Only then does he move back to my eyes.
“Not really. How about you?”
I wonder for a moment what he’s talking about until I recall that, about three paragraphs back, I asked him a question.
I shrug. “Not my pain.”
He’s the other side of the table from me, and all I want to do is reach over and wash the wound. It’s red and black and has the texture of a Rothko painting…
“Is that the look you’re after?”
“Well actually I was hoping for something a bit…cleaner.” He says it like he’s referring to a new kitchen or suchlike.
“What shape?” It’s a weird question, but I can’t think of anything better to ask. I’m still confused by this, still not sure what exactly we’re about to do, but unable to feel anything one way or the other.
Elijah’s lit a new cigarette, and is calmly puffing away at it, inhaling the smoke deeply, like he’s trying to use it as some kind of anaesthetic. He traces a circle on his chest, and exclaims, “Were you not watching the film? The same as that. Only, with less stabbing. Just, like a round scar. Like this, only bigger.” He points to his arm.
Of course I was watching. That bit in Return…? He’s so naked. So naked, against the layers and layers we’re all wearing in the other nine hours of the films. It’s one of my favourite scenes. Poor Lij – Frodo – looks so vulnerable, and so…wasted. Pulls my heartstrings…and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pull a few strings elsewhere as well. I can’t help it, I’m only human. Face me with that sight, and I react the same way most people with an open mind and an eye for aesthetics would. And so, when I look now, and notice that actually, Lij looks almost the same here – though a bit less “green-tinted” – I twitch. Proper nervous twitch, starts at the base of my spine and finishes up round the right shoulder, somewhere. It’s a strange sensation, one I hardly ever get. That’s a lie – it’s one I only get just before I come. I sincerely hope I’m not about to do that because not only would it be completely out of character for me, it would be fucking embarrassing. I wonder if Elijah noticed my twitch? One of those things that feel so dramatic, but could be completely imperceptible from the outside…
“How about a cigar?” I ask.
“Hell, if you’re so fucking shocked you want to start smoking, be my guest – but you’ll have to make do with one of these…” Lij proffers his cigarettes.
“No, you fool – for the scar.”
“…Yeah. Yeah, but I don’t have any. What d’you think I am, hey? A fucking filmstar?!” He laughs, and suddenly it’s all a bit less frightening. “Serious, anything will do – let’s just get on with it. It’s something I definitely want, but the more I think about it – it’s like the bungee jumping thing. Think too long, and you just won’t do it. And that would be chicken of me. So fuck that, let’s get on!”
As he says these last two phrases, he’s leaping out of the chair and looking wildly about him for something, presumably, to use, absent-mindedly running fingers across his arm. Smoking wildly, he skips into the kitchen and starts crashing stuff about. Snatches of him talking come floating out…
“…ouch! No, that won’t do… hmmm…oh, shit!…fucking ashtray…how about…no, made of wood! Stupid boy…fuck, where’s the…no…aha!”
He bounces back in, teeth clamped on the last of the fag, brandishing…a soup spoon. Unpleasant thoughts swim over my eyes. Like that he’s changed his mind about the whole thing and is going to offer to make me soup again. I’d rather burn him alive than eat his soup, bless the boy…
“… heat this up, and then hold it on. That’d work, right?”
“I guess… Science was never my strong point, but it’d certainly leave a mark or two. Want to try it?”
He’s holding the spoon to his chest, checking it’ll leave the right size circle. He seems satisfied.
“Here!” He grabs my arm and wraps my fingers around the spoon, before fishing a lighter from his pocket and pressing that in as well. I must’ve hesitated somehow, because he then drapes himself over me, best he can and squeezes me to him, whispering in my ear;
“If you don’t want to, it’s okay. I really appreciate this…”
I push him away, before my body spasms again, forcing a smile onto my face as my blood screams for me to hold him right back there where he was.
“Go and lie down, you…you insane, crazy, wonderful thing you. I’ll see what I can do.”
Elijah knocks the magazine that started all this to the floor, and flings himself out on the settee. He sticks the music channel back on the tv, and, as his eyes check my actions, begins to moan along reasonably tunelessly to whatever’s on.
Myself, I feel like I’m in an outtake from Trainspotting, as I apply the flame under the base of the spoon. A minute later, I suddenly realise that, never mind the spoon, my fucking thumb’s on fire, and fucking hell! it hurts…
“I thought it was you I was supposed to be burning!” I exclaim.
But no, the little fucker’s busy laughing. Good, I’ll show him…
I press the spoon in what I hope is the right place, thinking it might at least sizzle. But oh no, no, he just pulls a dissatisfied face, and asks if that’s the best I can do. I remove the spoon to find his smooth, pale skin has gone ever so slightly pink. Feeling the spoon with my palm, it’s about the temperature of an old hot water bottle. I pick up the lighter, but have to drop it again because that actually hurts…fucking thing…
“Short of having my own portable volcano to heat this up in, probably… Hold up, I could try it with a candle. Got any of those?”
“Why the fuck would I have a candle?”
I shrug.
“I don’t know, go look in the kitchen or somewhere. Pass me another cigarette?”
I stretch out for the pack and extract one.
“Now light it for me?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“That’s not very nice, now Dominic!”
“Light it yourself, you cheeky git.” And I throw it at him, winking to him as I leave in search of a candle.
He’s got some, you know. Tucked in the back of a drawer. Fuck knows where he got them. Probably doesn’t even know they’re there.
“You’re in luck…” I call out, as I return.
“Cool.” And oh, does he look the epitome of cool. I’d smoke if I could do it that well.
I set them out on the table and light three. They shine out in the already dim light of his living room.
“Oh it’s all romantic…” Lij offers, in a mock gay voice.
“More like Satanic…” I mutter. He smiles me a wicked smile. I compose myself, sat there, still heating a spoon. This all feels quite stupid.
Three music videos, and one very dodgy rendition of the Chilli Peppers from him later, the spoon is actually glowing red. I didn’t think stainless steel did that, but then I told you simple science wasn’t my thing. I enquire whether this is actually something we’re going to do, or if he’s going to jump away at the last minute and tell me it’s all a joke. His eyes tell me he’s dead serious before the reply of, hell yeah, go ahead.
I place a hand on his shoulder, half to steady myself, half to reassure him and, fuck mathematics too, half to enjoy the cool solidity of his body, look him right in the eye and press the spoon over the fading pinkness left from before. An involuntary reflex makes him push down and away, into the settee, so I press the spoon on more firmly, the fingers on my other hand grasping and releasing at his other arm, in an attempt to pacify…one of us, which it is I couldn’t say. His eyes are practically bulging, like I didn’t think could happen outside of CG effects units, and a sigh escapes his mouth. I can feel his pulse go up and nerves shoot through him, before he takes in a deep breath, looks straight up at me with an ice-cold gaze, and smiles. It’s a very peculiar cross between frightening and exciting.
“Again…” he coughs.
The spoon is already cold, and I sit back, taking my hand from him at last, and place it straight back in the flame. Elijah moves to feel his chest.
“Don’t touch it!” I squawk, like a mother instructing the child. “Wait ‘til we’re done. How’s it feel?”
“Like ice, actually.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah.”
Still feels…ridiculous. I peer at the wound I’m creating, and note that it’s an interesting redness, swelling and changing as I look. Kind of captivating, but not wanting to seem, well, any stranger, I start babbling…
“Okay, after this, it should blister. That won’t scar much, unless you scratch it away. Then, you pour alcohol on. That’ll hurt like hell, but it’ll stop any infection. Got any vodka?”
He’s looking at me strangely; “How the fuck d’you know all this Dom?!”
I blush. “Vodka!”
“On the side.” And it is, so that’s okay.
Quicker than before, it’s glowing red.
“Breathe in…” I order.
He does so, and again, I brand it onto the already swelling area. I know that the heat will break through the skin this time, and it’ll weep a clear liquid out.
“You can breathe out now…”
He does, with a moan. His breath catches me full in the face. Somehow the taste of smoke on it isn’t unpleasant, and doesn’t make me pull faces like it would with anyone else.
“That it yet? I’m going to be burnt through if you carry on much more…”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes…yes…oh fuck Dom, stop…”
He screws up his face in pain. I push the back of the spoon down harder, then rip it away. He gasps.
When I pour a half shot of neat vodka over him, he screams. I twitch again.
He stands up, goes over to the mirror and stares. A neat, clean circle, about an inch in diameter, looks back at him from the top left of his chest. It’s swelling, burning still. With the nail of his forefinger, he scratches the blistered skin away, and proper yells out this time. He looks like he’s going to faint, and I jump up and put my arm round him, holding him up.
“Hey – are you okay? Lij?”
“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea…no, no, I didn’t mean that – look? Did you see? It’s really cool! But fuck me, does it hurt.”
“Come sit down, you freak of nature.”
I guide him over, deliberating over whether to care that he’s in pain or to deny him any kind of sympathy because he wanted an aesthetically pleasing scar, and asked for the pain! Difficult. I compromise, by hugging him and insulting him simultaneously. He laughs, and hugs me back, swearing profusely. I pick up a tissue I soaked in vodka and press it onto the wound. He breathes in sharply again, and I hold it to him.
“Honestly… the things I do for you, Lij…”
He slips his arm around me again, and pulls me right up close. A split second stare, eyes not two inches apart, and then he kisses me full on the lips. Presses onto me like he wants to burn the impression of his lips into mine.
There’s no way he can have missed that convulsion I just had.
“Well…anything I can do for you by way of thanks?”
He pulls back a little way, and cocks an eyebrow at me. Suggestively.
Pairing:Dominic/Elijah
Title: Scarification 1/1
WARNINGS: Does what it says on the tin. Self-harm. Branding. Don't like the idea? Don't read this.
Rating: R?
Archive: Want. Take. Have. Tell me :)
Note: Based on a quote from an interview given by Elijah in this month's SFX magazine. He started it - his idea, not mine ;) Well, not the bit about Dom...that was my idea...
Disclaimer: It's all from my mind, my twisted, entertained mind. I doubt this would happen. Equally, I'd be wrong to say it never would ;)
FB: Please. Yeah. Good.
Thanks: To Tuuli, for encouraging my madness and pointing me here =)
He asks me right out of the blue, and I don’t quite know what to say. The way he’s asking isn’t helping, either. I hadn’t seen the interview ‘til I picked it off his coffee table. Lij has never been too ashamed to hide his appearances in the press; he usually likes to point such things out to us, so the latest article in SFX wasn’t a big deal. Usual stuff about, yes, I’m not a hobbit really, usual bits to encourage the fangirls (put the word “love” in a sentence with the name of any of the rest of the cast, and as long as it wasn’t poor old John, you’d usually set sparks flying round the internet), some random stuff about his new films, and then Lij calling through from the kitchen, where he’s getting beer from the fridge for us;
“What d’you think, Dom?”
I’m flicking through, reading bits as they catch my eye.
“Yeah. Still can’t see you as a football hooligan, mate!”
“Oh fuck off… How far have you got?”
“Bottom of page two.”
“Oh, fuck it!”
“What did you do?”
He comes in and is standing behind me.
“Nothing, but, skip to the middle of page three.”
I skim over the text. Nothing unusual, except, oh Lij, what’s that about?!
“You mean…here?” I point.
“Yeah. What d’you think?”
“Well, whatever makes you happy. And if getting a scar in the place Frodo had one is the kind of thing that’s going to make you happy, then I say fine, you strange, fucked up boy, you. I’d like to know how you’re planning on getting it though – it’ll take quite a mark to scar there…”
“See, I was going to ask you to help me out with that. Like, burn me or something.”
As he says this, I spin round, because staring at him will make the point that I have no idea what to say even clearer. Course, spinning round to find he’s stood there divested of the t-shirt he’d been wearing not two minutes ago is reasonably disorientating, so what I intend to be a concerned and caring – whilst ever so slightly disturbed - stare becomes a bit of a gawp.
“Okay…” I’m choosing my words carefully. “And you ask me because…?”
“You’re not that judgemental. Well, never noticed it in you. We get on. Which is kind of useful. It’s something I’ll have for the rest of my life, and, well, I could try and do it myself, but to be honest, well, I’d rather share the experience. Probably get it on the wrong side if I used a mirror, anyhow!” He laughs. “Come on, you know I like to share!”
“Can’t you get, like, professionals in this kind of thing? Someone to do it for you properly?”
“I don’t know, haven’t really looked into it. But I like the idea of it being between us, just me and someone else who knows what was involved. And I don’t think Sean would fancy it, you know how squeamish he gets. But you, well, you seem best qualified.”
I sit back. “Thought you went to get me a beer?”
He half-smiles. Nicely. “Sure.” Returns to the kitchen, where the sound of clinking glasses tells me he is actually getting it this time.
I’m buying time. It’s not an unappealing idea. And it’s true, I’m not judgemental. You’d have to go a long way from decency before I won’t talk to you any more. And he’s not asking much, well, not from my point of view. I mean, all that pleasure-pain stuff, it makes sense to me. I don’t think that’s what he’s asking me for though, like, in that sense…just saying…I mean…my thoughts tail off into masses of confusion.
I look back to the interview – it’s a memento, right? Like our tattoos. He’s obviously thought about it a fair bit, I mean, it’s not something you just completely randomly mention to journalists without knowing what you’re saying. You don’t want to be branded (pardon the pun) a freak without actually being prepared to go so far as to demonstrate that you are one. And I also know what he means about sharing that kind of experience, because it’ll always be marked on my mind, as well as my body, the day we got those done. The feeling of…group mentality.
Yeah. That. So okay, yeah, sure Elijah, Mr. Elijah Wood, I’ll glad damage your million dollar Hollywood body. I mean, it could go wrong either way, but when I have no objection to speak of, except obviously I don’t want to main the guy or cripple him or anything, I’d be a fool to refuse. Hell, it means you’ll stay this naked. Could I really tell you to fuck off looking like this?
A cold beer is suddenly floating in front of my eyes. Gratefully I clasp it from Elijah’s almost imperceptibly shaking hand, and gulp a little down. He sits opposite me and lights up. He’s still shirtless. I’m finding it hard not to fixate on his figure. He looks good for…Elijah.
“Yeah.”
He looks confused. “Yeah?”
“Yes. Course. Sure. Why not? You want a scar, hell, I’ll give you one. What, you want it burned, cut, branded, stabbed, scratched, frozen?”
He looks blank now. Was that a bit blunt? Not “understanding” enough? Well he started it! His free hand strokes his chest, which appears so smooth it may well be made of plastic. This whole situation would be a lot easier if it was. I try again.
“How squeamish are you?”
He fixes me with those eyes. I’m really attached to the look, like he just wrapped an arm round my neck and is pulling me in. He inhales from the cigarette, which I note from the way the smoke passes between our gaze.
He cocks his head to one side; one corner of his lips twitches upwards. Involuntarily, I follow his gaze, moving my head to the same angle. Then, I could swear, his eyelashes shake. He exhales a cloud of smoke, which breaks the gaze as his huge and upsettingly captivating eyes. Last eyes I saw that were so deep were on this dog that had been tied up outside my local corner shop. Stayed there stroking it for fucking ages. Beautiful creature. Just over being a puppy. I wished I could’ve taken it home with me… but I snap back from the visual memory to the scent of burning flesh.
Elijah is calmly, softly rotating his still-burning cigarette on the inside of his upper left arm. My internal organs jump up to stop him, but my body stays still. I wouldn’t be looking so non-judgemental and willing to help if I had a crisis over this now would I? He’s looking at the heat pushing under the top layers of his skin, watching it turn red and the ash meld and seal the hint of blood at the point of impact. Well after the point at which I think he should have stopped, he pulls the cigarette away and rubs the end between his fingers, sparks and shreds of tobacco gently dripping from his hand. Only then does he move back to my eyes.
“Not really. How about you?”
I wonder for a moment what he’s talking about until I recall that, about three paragraphs back, I asked him a question.
I shrug. “Not my pain.”
He’s the other side of the table from me, and all I want to do is reach over and wash the wound. It’s red and black and has the texture of a Rothko painting…
“Is that the look you’re after?”
“Well actually I was hoping for something a bit…cleaner.” He says it like he’s referring to a new kitchen or suchlike.
“What shape?” It’s a weird question, but I can’t think of anything better to ask. I’m still confused by this, still not sure what exactly we’re about to do, but unable to feel anything one way or the other.
Elijah’s lit a new cigarette, and is calmly puffing away at it, inhaling the smoke deeply, like he’s trying to use it as some kind of anaesthetic. He traces a circle on his chest, and exclaims, “Were you not watching the film? The same as that. Only, with less stabbing. Just, like a round scar. Like this, only bigger.” He points to his arm.
Of course I was watching. That bit in Return…? He’s so naked. So naked, against the layers and layers we’re all wearing in the other nine hours of the films. It’s one of my favourite scenes. Poor Lij – Frodo – looks so vulnerable, and so…wasted. Pulls my heartstrings…and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pull a few strings elsewhere as well. I can’t help it, I’m only human. Face me with that sight, and I react the same way most people with an open mind and an eye for aesthetics would. And so, when I look now, and notice that actually, Lij looks almost the same here – though a bit less “green-tinted” – I twitch. Proper nervous twitch, starts at the base of my spine and finishes up round the right shoulder, somewhere. It’s a strange sensation, one I hardly ever get. That’s a lie – it’s one I only get just before I come. I sincerely hope I’m not about to do that because not only would it be completely out of character for me, it would be fucking embarrassing. I wonder if Elijah noticed my twitch? One of those things that feel so dramatic, but could be completely imperceptible from the outside…
“How about a cigar?” I ask.
“Hell, if you’re so fucking shocked you want to start smoking, be my guest – but you’ll have to make do with one of these…” Lij proffers his cigarettes.
“No, you fool – for the scar.”
“…Yeah. Yeah, but I don’t have any. What d’you think I am, hey? A fucking filmstar?!” He laughs, and suddenly it’s all a bit less frightening. “Serious, anything will do – let’s just get on with it. It’s something I definitely want, but the more I think about it – it’s like the bungee jumping thing. Think too long, and you just won’t do it. And that would be chicken of me. So fuck that, let’s get on!”
As he says these last two phrases, he’s leaping out of the chair and looking wildly about him for something, presumably, to use, absent-mindedly running fingers across his arm. Smoking wildly, he skips into the kitchen and starts crashing stuff about. Snatches of him talking come floating out…
“…ouch! No, that won’t do… hmmm…oh, shit!…fucking ashtray…how about…no, made of wood! Stupid boy…fuck, where’s the…no…aha!”
He bounces back in, teeth clamped on the last of the fag, brandishing…a soup spoon. Unpleasant thoughts swim over my eyes. Like that he’s changed his mind about the whole thing and is going to offer to make me soup again. I’d rather burn him alive than eat his soup, bless the boy…
“… heat this up, and then hold it on. That’d work, right?”
“I guess… Science was never my strong point, but it’d certainly leave a mark or two. Want to try it?”
He’s holding the spoon to his chest, checking it’ll leave the right size circle. He seems satisfied.
“Here!” He grabs my arm and wraps my fingers around the spoon, before fishing a lighter from his pocket and pressing that in as well. I must’ve hesitated somehow, because he then drapes himself over me, best he can and squeezes me to him, whispering in my ear;
“If you don’t want to, it’s okay. I really appreciate this…”
I push him away, before my body spasms again, forcing a smile onto my face as my blood screams for me to hold him right back there where he was.
“Go and lie down, you…you insane, crazy, wonderful thing you. I’ll see what I can do.”
Elijah knocks the magazine that started all this to the floor, and flings himself out on the settee. He sticks the music channel back on the tv, and, as his eyes check my actions, begins to moan along reasonably tunelessly to whatever’s on.
Myself, I feel like I’m in an outtake from Trainspotting, as I apply the flame under the base of the spoon. A minute later, I suddenly realise that, never mind the spoon, my fucking thumb’s on fire, and fucking hell! it hurts…
“I thought it was you I was supposed to be burning!” I exclaim.
But no, the little fucker’s busy laughing. Good, I’ll show him…
I press the spoon in what I hope is the right place, thinking it might at least sizzle. But oh no, no, he just pulls a dissatisfied face, and asks if that’s the best I can do. I remove the spoon to find his smooth, pale skin has gone ever so slightly pink. Feeling the spoon with my palm, it’s about the temperature of an old hot water bottle. I pick up the lighter, but have to drop it again because that actually hurts…fucking thing…
“Short of having my own portable volcano to heat this up in, probably… Hold up, I could try it with a candle. Got any of those?”
“Why the fuck would I have a candle?”
I shrug.
“I don’t know, go look in the kitchen or somewhere. Pass me another cigarette?”
I stretch out for the pack and extract one.
“Now light it for me?”
“Go fuck yourself!”
“That’s not very nice, now Dominic!”
“Light it yourself, you cheeky git.” And I throw it at him, winking to him as I leave in search of a candle.
He’s got some, you know. Tucked in the back of a drawer. Fuck knows where he got them. Probably doesn’t even know they’re there.
“You’re in luck…” I call out, as I return.
“Cool.” And oh, does he look the epitome of cool. I’d smoke if I could do it that well.
I set them out on the table and light three. They shine out in the already dim light of his living room.
“Oh it’s all romantic…” Lij offers, in a mock gay voice.
“More like Satanic…” I mutter. He smiles me a wicked smile. I compose myself, sat there, still heating a spoon. This all feels quite stupid.
Three music videos, and one very dodgy rendition of the Chilli Peppers from him later, the spoon is actually glowing red. I didn’t think stainless steel did that, but then I told you simple science wasn’t my thing. I enquire whether this is actually something we’re going to do, or if he’s going to jump away at the last minute and tell me it’s all a joke. His eyes tell me he’s dead serious before the reply of, hell yeah, go ahead.
I place a hand on his shoulder, half to steady myself, half to reassure him and, fuck mathematics too, half to enjoy the cool solidity of his body, look him right in the eye and press the spoon over the fading pinkness left from before. An involuntary reflex makes him push down and away, into the settee, so I press the spoon on more firmly, the fingers on my other hand grasping and releasing at his other arm, in an attempt to pacify…one of us, which it is I couldn’t say. His eyes are practically bulging, like I didn’t think could happen outside of CG effects units, and a sigh escapes his mouth. I can feel his pulse go up and nerves shoot through him, before he takes in a deep breath, looks straight up at me with an ice-cold gaze, and smiles. It’s a very peculiar cross between frightening and exciting.
“Again…” he coughs.
The spoon is already cold, and I sit back, taking my hand from him at last, and place it straight back in the flame. Elijah moves to feel his chest.
“Don’t touch it!” I squawk, like a mother instructing the child. “Wait ‘til we’re done. How’s it feel?”
“Like ice, actually.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah.”
Still feels…ridiculous. I peer at the wound I’m creating, and note that it’s an interesting redness, swelling and changing as I look. Kind of captivating, but not wanting to seem, well, any stranger, I start babbling…
“Okay, after this, it should blister. That won’t scar much, unless you scratch it away. Then, you pour alcohol on. That’ll hurt like hell, but it’ll stop any infection. Got any vodka?”
He’s looking at me strangely; “How the fuck d’you know all this Dom?!”
I blush. “Vodka!”
“On the side.” And it is, so that’s okay.
Quicker than before, it’s glowing red.
“Breathe in…” I order.
He does so, and again, I brand it onto the already swelling area. I know that the heat will break through the skin this time, and it’ll weep a clear liquid out.
“You can breathe out now…”
He does, with a moan. His breath catches me full in the face. Somehow the taste of smoke on it isn’t unpleasant, and doesn’t make me pull faces like it would with anyone else.
“That it yet? I’m going to be burnt through if you carry on much more…”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes…yes…oh fuck Dom, stop…”
He screws up his face in pain. I push the back of the spoon down harder, then rip it away. He gasps.
When I pour a half shot of neat vodka over him, he screams. I twitch again.
He stands up, goes over to the mirror and stares. A neat, clean circle, about an inch in diameter, looks back at him from the top left of his chest. It’s swelling, burning still. With the nail of his forefinger, he scratches the blistered skin away, and proper yells out this time. He looks like he’s going to faint, and I jump up and put my arm round him, holding him up.
“Hey – are you okay? Lij?”
“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea…no, no, I didn’t mean that – look? Did you see? It’s really cool! But fuck me, does it hurt.”
“Come sit down, you freak of nature.”
I guide him over, deliberating over whether to care that he’s in pain or to deny him any kind of sympathy because he wanted an aesthetically pleasing scar, and asked for the pain! Difficult. I compromise, by hugging him and insulting him simultaneously. He laughs, and hugs me back, swearing profusely. I pick up a tissue I soaked in vodka and press it onto the wound. He breathes in sharply again, and I hold it to him.
“Honestly… the things I do for you, Lij…”
He slips his arm around me again, and pulls me right up close. A split second stare, eyes not two inches apart, and then he kisses me full on the lips. Presses onto me like he wants to burn the impression of his lips into mine.
There’s no way he can have missed that convulsion I just had.
“Well…anything I can do for you by way of thanks?”
He pulls back a little way, and cocks an eyebrow at me. Suggestively.
no subject
I liked the POV and for some reason, especially, this line:
I’d smoke if I could do it that well.
Thanks :)