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fellowshippers2002-09-25 06:53 am
ex-thewayout304.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2002-09-25 06:53 am
Convolutions and Confusion 5/6
Title: Convolutions and Confusion
Author: "Elaine" (email: fido12@hotmail.com - AIM: DOMinateMePlz1)
Pairing: Dominic Monaghan / Elijah Wood
Rating: R
Parts: 5/6
Summary: Elijah doesn't want Dom to go, and Elijah always gets what he wants.
Warnings: evil!Elijah
Feedback: Please, please send feedback. I'm a feedback whore.
Disclaimer: I don't know these boys. This all came from my head.
Contributors: Thanks to Kristina for the speedy beta!
Author's Notes: _This_ indicates an underlined word.
***
Dear Elijah,
You know, "dear" is a really funny word. Did you know it actually has 11 meanings? It is most commonly used to mean loved and cherished. But it also means high-priced and expensive. I think that, in this case, both meanings are easily applicable. I truly love you, Elijah, no matter what you've done to me, how you've hurt me, and I always will. However, loving you is a luxury that I'm afraid I've bought at too high a price. I think I'm losing my sanity.
I was smitten from the moment I laid eyes on you. You know that, right? I saw those dimples of yours and... my heart couldn't handle it. Not only are you the first bloke I've ever loved, you're the first _person_ I've loved. Everyone I ever meet in the future will have to live up to the impossible standard that you've set for me. You've ruined people for me. You've ruined love for me.
Do you remember that night in New Zealand we spent walking home through the rain? The night when you told me? I was already drunk off my arse, but I went home and drank some more. I was afraid to go to sleep that night; I was afraid that when I woke up it would all have been a dream. You looked like an angel, like a fucking Raphael. Slap a blonde wig on you and you'd be the perfect Cupid. No, not the little baby with wings, the real Cupid. The Roman god. You're Eros and I'm Psyche. Except in our version of the story, Psyche's suspicions are correct. Cupid is a fucking monster.
I don't think I'll ever be able to understand you, Elijah. I will never understand why you had to do this to me. Maybe you don't even know you're hurting me. If you didn't know before, you do now. New Zealand was... perfect. But since we've returned to Los Angeles, you've done nothing but manipulate me. I can see that now. It was so slow, so gradual, that I didn't see what was happening until last night.
Last night. I bled in my sleep last night, do you know that? You forced yourself into me, and then turned your back to me as I lay quietly bleeding. I didn't even notice it until this morning. Don't worry, I washed the sheets.
I wouldn't even be writing this if Billy wasn't here to support me. He's not _right_ here, of course. He's not reading this, and he never will. He's out in the living room, waiting patiently for me to finish spilling my guts so we can go to the airport. Yes, the airport. I'm going to Scotland with him. I'll probably live with him for a while. We're going to write a play. I miss Europe. I miss being home.
I know you're going to think this is all Billy's fault, but it isn't. He talked me into leaving, but he is not to blame. For a long time I'm going to believe that it's my fault. If I had just done what you said, if I had just played the game, you wouldn't have done the things you did. After I'm through with that, I'm going to blame you. I'm going to be really fucking pissed off at you for a while. But I know that it isn't your fault, not entirely. Something had to make you this way.
I think - this is just my speculation - that you've become a control freak because you're used to being controlled. You've been in the public eye longer than anyone I've ever known personally. All your life, you've been controlled by your mother, your agent, etc. You've probably never had the chance to do things for yourself, you're so accustomed to fulfilling someone else's wishes. It's all you've ever known, so you think it's normal. Sorta like the abused child who grows up to beat his own kids. It's all he knows.
I don't know what happens after this. I suppose this could be the end of the game. I hope that isn't true. I still love you; I will _always_ love you. I hope I've expressed that. I can't live without you, without your touch, but I'll have to manage. I'm going to miss your eyes, your dimples. I'm going to miss that way you look at me, when I can tell exactly what you're thinking. I'll miss having you next to me while I sleep, I'll miss the way your eyelids flutter and your lips pout when you come. Yeah, I'll even miss the way you flick your cigarettes.
Despite all that, I refuse to be your plaything any longer. I refuse to be manipulated. In order to do this, I have to leave. I can't resist you, I never could. I think we both know that. I'm tired of drinking skim milk. I'm tired of staying home. I'm tired of your desires always coming first. I'm tired of being your fucking Barbie doll.
No, I take that back. I'm not tired of any of it. That's why this is so hard. I know that I _should_ be tired of all those things, and that's close enough. If I had it my own way, I wouldn't be leaving you. But unfortunately it's not something I have any control over. I have to do this for me.
This is where it gets really hard. I have to ask you not to contact me. Don't call me, don't come to Billy's house, don't speak to me at all. All it would take for me to come running back is a look, a word, anything from you. I have to shield myself from that. If you honestly love me - and I believe deep inside that you do - you'll see a psychiatrist. You need to get some help, Elijah. You can't continue to treat people this way; it's unhealthy. If you get help, if you get over this problem, please God, call me. Maybe we can pick up the pieces of this shattered relationship sometime in the future. But not until then.
I love you. I'll always love you, and only you. Please don't be mad. Get some help; do it for me.
-- Dominic
***
Dom sat down the pencil and re-read what he had written, somehow managing not to cry. He couldn't believe it was this easy, that all he had to do was write a letter, after all this time. He folded the paper into thirds, pressing the creases, caressing the letter the way he might have once caressed Elijah's skin. He licked the envelope closed and wrote "Elijah" on the back in his scrawling script.
***
"I'm ready."
"Great, we have just enough time. Let's get the fuck out of here."
Dom left the envelope lying on the kitchen table. He stepped over the threshold and out into the cool evening air. The two piled into Billy's rental car, and Dom left Elijah's house for the last time. He watched the apartment receding into the distance through the rearview mirror and knew that he was leaving his heart behind. His heart was another luxury he couldn't afford.
***
The drive to the airport was a feverish blur. He saw ten cars that looked exactly like Elijah's. Once he begged Billy to turn around, just turn around, he couldn't do it. But no, he had made it this far. He was going to make it all the way - all the way to Scotland.
Being hotshot actors now, they flew first-class. Dom closed his eyes and gripped the armrests as the plane became airborne. He was free. In poems, the protagonist is always glad to be free of their burden. So why the fuck did he feel like his heart had been ripped out and stomped on?
Author: "Elaine" (email: fido12@hotmail.com - AIM: DOMinateMePlz1)
Pairing: Dominic Monaghan / Elijah Wood
Rating: R
Parts: 5/6
Summary: Elijah doesn't want Dom to go, and Elijah always gets what he wants.
Warnings: evil!Elijah
Feedback: Please, please send feedback. I'm a feedback whore.
Disclaimer: I don't know these boys. This all came from my head.
Contributors: Thanks to Kristina for the speedy beta!
Author's Notes: _This_ indicates an underlined word.
***
Dear Elijah,
You know, "dear" is a really funny word. Did you know it actually has 11 meanings? It is most commonly used to mean loved and cherished. But it also means high-priced and expensive. I think that, in this case, both meanings are easily applicable. I truly love you, Elijah, no matter what you've done to me, how you've hurt me, and I always will. However, loving you is a luxury that I'm afraid I've bought at too high a price. I think I'm losing my sanity.
I was smitten from the moment I laid eyes on you. You know that, right? I saw those dimples of yours and... my heart couldn't handle it. Not only are you the first bloke I've ever loved, you're the first _person_ I've loved. Everyone I ever meet in the future will have to live up to the impossible standard that you've set for me. You've ruined people for me. You've ruined love for me.
Do you remember that night in New Zealand we spent walking home through the rain? The night when you told me? I was already drunk off my arse, but I went home and drank some more. I was afraid to go to sleep that night; I was afraid that when I woke up it would all have been a dream. You looked like an angel, like a fucking Raphael. Slap a blonde wig on you and you'd be the perfect Cupid. No, not the little baby with wings, the real Cupid. The Roman god. You're Eros and I'm Psyche. Except in our version of the story, Psyche's suspicions are correct. Cupid is a fucking monster.
I don't think I'll ever be able to understand you, Elijah. I will never understand why you had to do this to me. Maybe you don't even know you're hurting me. If you didn't know before, you do now. New Zealand was... perfect. But since we've returned to Los Angeles, you've done nothing but manipulate me. I can see that now. It was so slow, so gradual, that I didn't see what was happening until last night.
Last night. I bled in my sleep last night, do you know that? You forced yourself into me, and then turned your back to me as I lay quietly bleeding. I didn't even notice it until this morning. Don't worry, I washed the sheets.
I wouldn't even be writing this if Billy wasn't here to support me. He's not _right_ here, of course. He's not reading this, and he never will. He's out in the living room, waiting patiently for me to finish spilling my guts so we can go to the airport. Yes, the airport. I'm going to Scotland with him. I'll probably live with him for a while. We're going to write a play. I miss Europe. I miss being home.
I know you're going to think this is all Billy's fault, but it isn't. He talked me into leaving, but he is not to blame. For a long time I'm going to believe that it's my fault. If I had just done what you said, if I had just played the game, you wouldn't have done the things you did. After I'm through with that, I'm going to blame you. I'm going to be really fucking pissed off at you for a while. But I know that it isn't your fault, not entirely. Something had to make you this way.
I think - this is just my speculation - that you've become a control freak because you're used to being controlled. You've been in the public eye longer than anyone I've ever known personally. All your life, you've been controlled by your mother, your agent, etc. You've probably never had the chance to do things for yourself, you're so accustomed to fulfilling someone else's wishes. It's all you've ever known, so you think it's normal. Sorta like the abused child who grows up to beat his own kids. It's all he knows.
I don't know what happens after this. I suppose this could be the end of the game. I hope that isn't true. I still love you; I will _always_ love you. I hope I've expressed that. I can't live without you, without your touch, but I'll have to manage. I'm going to miss your eyes, your dimples. I'm going to miss that way you look at me, when I can tell exactly what you're thinking. I'll miss having you next to me while I sleep, I'll miss the way your eyelids flutter and your lips pout when you come. Yeah, I'll even miss the way you flick your cigarettes.
Despite all that, I refuse to be your plaything any longer. I refuse to be manipulated. In order to do this, I have to leave. I can't resist you, I never could. I think we both know that. I'm tired of drinking skim milk. I'm tired of staying home. I'm tired of your desires always coming first. I'm tired of being your fucking Barbie doll.
No, I take that back. I'm not tired of any of it. That's why this is so hard. I know that I _should_ be tired of all those things, and that's close enough. If I had it my own way, I wouldn't be leaving you. But unfortunately it's not something I have any control over. I have to do this for me.
This is where it gets really hard. I have to ask you not to contact me. Don't call me, don't come to Billy's house, don't speak to me at all. All it would take for me to come running back is a look, a word, anything from you. I have to shield myself from that. If you honestly love me - and I believe deep inside that you do - you'll see a psychiatrist. You need to get some help, Elijah. You can't continue to treat people this way; it's unhealthy. If you get help, if you get over this problem, please God, call me. Maybe we can pick up the pieces of this shattered relationship sometime in the future. But not until then.
I love you. I'll always love you, and only you. Please don't be mad. Get some help; do it for me.
-- Dominic
***
Dom sat down the pencil and re-read what he had written, somehow managing not to cry. He couldn't believe it was this easy, that all he had to do was write a letter, after all this time. He folded the paper into thirds, pressing the creases, caressing the letter the way he might have once caressed Elijah's skin. He licked the envelope closed and wrote "Elijah" on the back in his scrawling script.
***
"I'm ready."
"Great, we have just enough time. Let's get the fuck out of here."
Dom left the envelope lying on the kitchen table. He stepped over the threshold and out into the cool evening air. The two piled into Billy's rental car, and Dom left Elijah's house for the last time. He watched the apartment receding into the distance through the rearview mirror and knew that he was leaving his heart behind. His heart was another luxury he couldn't afford.
***
The drive to the airport was a feverish blur. He saw ten cars that looked exactly like Elijah's. Once he begged Billy to turn around, just turn around, he couldn't do it. But no, he had made it this far. He was going to make it all the way - all the way to Scotland.
Being hotshot actors now, they flew first-class. Dom closed his eyes and gripped the armrests as the plane became airborne. He was free. In poems, the protagonist is always glad to be free of their burden. So why the fuck did he feel like his heart had been ripped out and stomped on?