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fellowshippers2004-03-19 06:28 pm
glass-moment.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-03-19 06:28 pm
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Wow. So. I've been keeping this word file called "ficcing" for over a month. It gets all the drabbles, ideas, ficlets, whatever that I come up with. I figured it was time to post them all. Some are really random, short, pointless, whatever, but a few have saving grace. All I ask is that you don't read one short pointless one and decide to skip all the others because it sucked. ^_^ Thanks.
Pairing: Billy/?, kind of implied
Rated: PG
Word count: 130
Note(s): ...yeah...
Billy stares sightlessly out the window, letting the autumn wind chill away the gritty, unsettled itch of the night's insomnia. After a moment he lets his eyes focus, somehow startled at how far from dark the night seems to bee. Ghostly, unfamiliar trees and distant, unfamiliar constellations fail to completely obscure the face that persists in dominating his imagination.
Silhouetted leaves dance in the breeze, momentarily swirling to form high, blue-black cheekbones and a sharp chin. Dark clusters parted to reveal glimmers of the night, creating sea-colored eyes that are at once wild, proud, and haunted. Then the leaves stir and the image vanishes, lingering only in his mind. Billy remains at the window for a moment longer before he has to turn away, closing his eyes against the moonlight.
Pairing: Monaboyd
Rated: high PG or low PG-13 for mentions, no detail
Word count: 244
Note(s): I like this one. It amuses me.
It seems as though people have always been asking Dom questions. Where are you going? When will you be back? Where were you? Who is that? Have you done your work? Are you finished yet? Are you sure? What are you (do you think you're) doing? He's grown adept at creating answers, true or untrue, almost as he is saying them.
There are some questions, however, that he simply cannot cope with. The first he remembers was his childhood friend Alec's last day in school before he moved three hours away. Eleven-year-old Dom had jokingly told him to "have a nice life". The next thing he know a teacher had pulled him aside to say that an anonymous classmate had been concerned that he was suicidal. He froze. His body flashed hot, then cold; he sweated. He managed to rattle off something convincing enough, but the incident left him so shaken that he didn't tell anyone about it for a year.
The second question that stands out in Dom's memory was really his fault. He had been showing a friend some of the things he had written (which, granted, were all rather morbid and involved several suicides), but he still went hot and cold and had to seriously restrain himself when his friend asked if he cut.
When Billy's lips press against his, sweat flashes fire and ice over Dominic's body and he wonders vaguely why no one ever asked if he was gay.
Pairing: Dom/Billy, implied Dom/Elijah
Rated: PG
Word count: 145
Note(s): I just typed Toes instead of Notes. Interesting.
It couldn't have lasted long, Billy had known it wouldn't from the beginning. Opposites are known to attract, but not known to work together. And he and Dom were opposites, despite how everyone constantly paired and mixed them up. Dom was overconfident, Billy was insecure. Dom was just this side of too immature, Billy was just this side of getting too old for this. Dom liked (needed) the spotlight, Billy preferred the shadows. Dom wanted excitement, Billy wanted safe and familiar and maybe to settle down.
Still, Dom hadn't said anything and Billy wasn't willing to give up what he had. So he overlooked how Elijah's name began to invade their conversations, just as he overlooked how Elijah's clothes began to invade their room. He simply pleased the interviewers and told the flashing cameras and smiles how wonderfully alike he and Dom seemed to be.
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rated: PG
Word count: 207
Note(s): The first real fluff I've ever written. Urk.
At the moment, Dom can't think of anywhere he'd rather be than Billy's bed, can't think of anyone he'd rather be with than its owner. In fact, he could probably spend eternity just not moving. Warmth seeps into his very bones from the gold of late afternoon sun, preserved by the twisted blanket thrown over the lower half of him and the sturdy body pressed against his back. Billy's murmur flows steadily over him in a wash of open vowels...
"Hmmmm?" More of an elongated exhalation than an inquiry. Dom turns his head, watching wall-ceiling-wall stretch languidly through his sight.
"Angels are most often found where they are least expected," repeats Billy, laughter ringing in a quiet harmony to his words.
"What?"
"Your name. Dominic. It's Latin." Billy's arm (the one not tucked underneath his head) plays lazily in Dom's hair, bringing his elbow and arm level with Dom's nose and neck. He feels a slight urge to lick, but decides it's not worth the effort.
"It means "belonging to God."
"Mmm." Dom feels like he's thinking through honey. "Wha'bout Billy?"
"William. It's English."
"No...whassit mean?" His words blend together with the unhurried proximity of sleep. Billy smiles as Dom drowsily curls into him.
"It means 'protector'."
Pairing: Er. Dom?
Rated: PG
Word Count: 235
Note(s): Pointless blather.
Dom stares blankly at the glaring light of his monitor. The picture it shows hasn't changed at all. A red bar glares at him, informing him that he is using 93% of his inbox (because he refuses to get rid of anything, be it material or cybernetic). His five latest messages are displayed below it- two from Elijah, one from some recruiting political party, one from Orlando, another from Elijah.
His desk is littered with dirty dishes, mail, scrap paper with assorted phone numbers and useless information, a notebook, two uncharged cordless phones, a few cds, and a pile of used tissues that are thrust behind the monitor (out of sight, out of mind). The black keyboard is speckled with white from his nervous habit of rubbing at the dry patch above his right eyebrow. The desk is backed up against the window, a shade that once could have been "cream" and is now simply "dirty" crookedly shielding his view of the street.
He opens it with an angry jerk. The outside light is bleak and as unforgiving as ice. It makes the florescence of his computer look faint and sickly in contrast. He presses the "check mail" button. It grumbles for a minute (he hasn't turned the thing off in three days), and presents him with the now overly familiar screen.
Dom lowers his head into his hands and rubs at his aching eyes.
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rated: PG
Word count: 674
Note(s): I finally gave in and wrote treegod!Dom. I am so ashamed of myself. However, I adore the Billy in this fic. Also, this is actually a fic, with a plot of sorts.
Billy has always loved to climb trees. He's never been particularly good at it, never been able to swing himself through the branches in the unthinking glide of over-up-over-up-over-up, but he enjoys it. He climbs in forests, where no one can see that he doesn't exude some unconscious connection to the trees. He can almost pretend he does when no one is there to correct him. Besides, even if he isn't graceful, he still doesn't quite clamber.
Billy picks the trees he climbs without much thought. He doesn't go near the old, majestic, towering type. They seem as if perhaps they would be sullied by his inexperienced human touch. Their branches start high off the ground, too. He doesn't like whippy, scented trees, the kind that are likely to sport needles. They seem menacing, with an arrogant promise to smear him with sap and greenery and lash twigs into his face. Billy prefers quiet trees. Trees with brown or gray calloused bark, trees with limbs broad and sturdy enough to be comforting without being intimidating. He likes trees that don't whisk energetically in the wind, but that don't threaten to impart dark secrets in the whispering of their leaves. Billy chooses everyday, middle-aged trees that don't have anything in particular to say but enjoy a little company. Billy likes trees that like him.
~*~
Billy is almost asleep when something sends ripples through his calm. It isn't intrusive, like someone lobbing stones into a pool from a bridge above. The ripples seem natural, something that belongs, but awakens his notice just the same. Curious, he pulls himself upright and lets his gaze drift past his shoes, around several branches, and over the green-scattered ground.
Dom is walking slowly through the forest, though he doesn't seem preoccupied with his own thoughts as much as he seems preoccupied with the world around him. His path winds randomly as if he feels a magnetic pull from the trees all around him and follows whichever is strongest. He pauses in front of each tree, sometimes reaching out to touch them, sometimes only solemnly regarding them for a moment before moving on. The grandest trees seem only old and majestic, not intimidating, when Dom touches them. Their secrets wash over him, leaving depth but not shadows behind in his eyes. Or perhaps he already knows their secrets. The young, lashing trees seem only wild, not arrogant, and sing under his hands.
Billy forgets to hold his breath when Dom pauses under his tree. He almost feels it shift beneath him, feels some sort of answer pulse through the bark under his hands. Maybe he's just too far into Rings. After a long moment, he finally realizes that Dom is speaking. At first he strains to hear, but somehow it isn't right to concentrate here. Instead, he watches Dom's blunt fingers caress the ridged bark and lets Dom's quiet voice wash over him, catching the words in the back of his mind to be sorted later.
I just want to touch him sometimes. Want to reach out and hold him and tell him everything will be okay. I wonder if he knows how much he hurts inside sometimes, or if you can only tell by looking into his eyes.
Perhaps, thinks Billy, Dom was greeting the trees.
It would be different out here, I think. With sunlight and shade and oxygen. I think I could bare his gaze better out here. I wonder what he would see.
It occurs to Billy that Dom moves so silently because he is barefoot.
Billy.
Dom traces five letters onto the bark and moves off again. Billy doesn't stop him, doesn't call after him, doesn't make any move to leave his perch. There will be a time for that. For now, he just smiles up into the sky and listens to the leaves above him rustle with quiet laughter.
Besides, it's easier to forget that he's never been particularly good at climbing trees when there is no one around to watch him do it.
Pairing: Viggo/Dom, sort of
Rated: PG
Word count: 434
Note(s): Rambly Viggo. Wheee.
Viggo sometimes wondered if his soul was made of plant. He'd never really liked winter, especially the stale-ice chill that was sure to rear against him when his plane arrived in New York in six hours. Here, however, he could almost forget what awaited him.
He wandered slowly through the silent Montana dawn. It was grayish and the air was crystal with water that pooled persistently in every available hollow. Viggo hadn't realized how much he wilted over the brittle dryness of winter until he finally stepped out of the airport and into the rain.
He definitely felt more at home in the empty, unfamiliar streets than in the fluorescent cheer of the airport. He could almost feel himself absorbing water as he walked, although he couldn't quite shake the confining feeling of dress shoes. The tan-and-cream borrowed cell phone warmed pleasantly in his hand, comfortably reminiscent of a stone.
He leaned his thumb against a button. The screen flared briefly and ineffectually, reminding him of the sitcom-yellow reading lights of the plane. A cursor blinked in too regimented a rhythm. Viggo paused in his walk to push slowly at bottoms too smooth under his calloused fingers.
3 666 6.
Dom.
I'm here in Montana. It's almost six in the morning. It's gorgeous out. Sort of between rain and mist. It's wonderful to be outside in the growth again.
444 66 68.
In MT.
At times I wish we'd never done Rings. It's next to impossible to get away from all the publicity. Or if I have to deal with it, I wish someone else who could understand was here. I wish you were here.
6 444 7777 7777 0 999 666 88.
Miss you.
He deleted that.
'Lij told me you're visiting Billy. It's just bloody lovely that you two are still so close.
44 666 9 7777 0 22 444 555 555. Hows Bill?
Staring at the inadequate message, Viggo realized that his thoughts had unconsciously switched into Dom's voice. Interesting.
His words blinked back up at him, impersonal and incomplete. He leaned on the button to delete them, leaned until his message vanished and the phone turned off. He dropped in into the pocket of the jacket tied around his waist. It was light enough that he could barely feel it against his thigh.
Taking one last breath of the morning, he turned and headed back to the airport.
The next day, Dom flicked on his cell phone and was informed that he had received one new text message. It read,
Sometimes I wonder if my soul is made of plant.
Pairing: Implied Orlando/Craig, Dom/Surpise. ^_^
Rated: PG, maybe bordering on PG-13? Dunno.
Word count: 826
Note(s): Definitely a fic, with a plot and a point. Also the first dialogue I've successfully written. I really like this one.
"If you were Orlando-"
"Sean. If I was Orlando, I'd jump off a cliff. Without the bungee cord," quipped Dom from where he sprawled languorously on the floor.
"No, seriously. If you were Orlando, would you come out publicly?"
"Orlando doesn't need to come out,” called Elijah from the kitchen, "Anyone who looks at him and doesn't think 'not quite straight' is either dead or a fangirl in total denial that she'll never have a chance with him-"
"Either way, not someone who deserves to know," finished Dom.
"Could you have guessed, before he told you?" inquired Billy, draped horizontally over the overstuffed armchair.
"Well, no..." admitted Elijah. He flopped bonelessly on the floor beside Dom, who gave him an upside-down grin and swiped a bottle of soda from his hand.
"'Lij doesn't count, anyway. Anyone else would've noticed."
"Seriously, though?" Sean nodded. Billy shifted in his chair, considering it. "Maybe. Hard to imagine- Dom, don't drink that, you'll spill it all over everything- what the public reaction would be."
"The media'd have a field day," commented Elijah, pausing in his apparently fascinating game of tossing M&Ms into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth. His continuous failure didn't seem to detract from his enthusiasm.
"He'd ruin his chances for the future," said Dom, attempting to discover a way to drink from a full bottle of soda while lying down, "and besides, it's really his business anyway."
"Maybe," Elijah said, “he should just come out to Craig."
"Craig?"
"Well, he might be a little more encouraged to consider something if he knew Orlando wasn't strictly...er...on the other side of the spectrum."
Dom snorted.
"I'm sure Craig knows well enough. Haven't we been over this?" he said, emphasizing his words with his hands and very nearly drenching everyone with soda in the process.
"I don't know," said Sean, "he strikes me as the reserved type. I doubt he'd act on just an assumption. Especially about something like that. Dom, either sit up and drink that or give it to me before you ruin Billy's rug."
"Again," put in the owner of the rug in question.
Dom pulled himself upright with an exaggerated sigh, gulped a mouthful of soda, and promptly choked. When he managed to swallow, he thrust the bottle at Elijah, eyes watering slightly.
"That's bloody disgusting! What is that stuff?" He flopped dramatically back to the floor. There was a silent pause.
"You know," said Dom to no one in particular, "I've never liked soda."
~*~
"So, Dom?" There was a pause. Dom raised one eyebrow. He and Sean were standing outside his house, facing each other in the fading light.
Sean sighed. "Do you really think that conversation was about Orlando and Craig?"
"Wasn't it?"
Sean turned the patented It's-No-Use-I've-Already-Found-Where-You-Hid-Your-Report-Card look on him, full force. Dom squirmed.
"Dom. You look at Billy like Christine looks at a six dollar chocolate bar once a month."
"Oh, so I'm in love with Billy?" said Dom, using his eyebrows to put quotes around the last four words. "What do you want me to do, corner him behind the makeup trailer and say 'Sorry, Bills, but I'm really flamingly gay and fancy the pants off you'?" Dom's voice dripped with sarcasm, but his gaze flickered down and away from Sean's eyes.
"Well, you could always just kiss him. That seems to work in most movies."
For a moment, Dom stood perfectly still, face unreadable. Then he lunged. Before Sean could register what was happening, he was pinned against the door and Dom was kissing him for all he was worth. It was sudden, it was intense, it was passionate, and it was edged with steel and desperation.
Dom pulled away after a moment, eyes blazing.
"Look, I know that was stupid of me. Best mates and all, which I probably just ruined, and the whole heterosexual thing. But I just couldn't cope with it any longer. Ever since I first saw you, you've been driving me crazy, you know. You're always there. Shooting, talking, offset, onset. I can't get away from you; I wouldn't want to if I could. But you have no idea what you're doing to me. Every time you're angry at me, even just in fun, it hurts. Every time you're sad, or angry, or tired, it affects me. Do you have any idea how much of my life I spend worrying about you? I'm sorry, I truly am. I shouldn't have said any of this, I've probably ruined our friendship and the film and everything in the whole bloody world, but I just can't deal with it anymore."
He stepped back, breathing a little heavily, staring almost imploringly into Sean's eyes. Sean gaped, absolutely wordless.
After a few seconds that felt like eternity to Sean, Dom rocked back on his heels, hands in his back pockets, and broke into a full grin.
“So, how'd I do? Think Billy will be impressed?”
Title: Your Eyes
Rated: PG
Pairing: Orlando/Billy, Orlando/Elijah
Notes: Written for Chelsea for the lotr_loveletter challenge, but never posted here. Figured I'd finish up with a real fic. And yes, I did steal a line from the first drabble to put in here.
As much as Orlando would hate to admit it, it was Billy's eyes that started the whole thing. Eyes that he fell in love with the first time he saw them up close and then couldn't forget.
Orlando was a firm subscriber to the belief that eyes cannot actually show emotion- he'd even stood in front of the mirror and tried to change the look in his eyes. Needless to say, he didn't succeed. Sure, he could portray emotions, but only using his face.
Billy's eyes almost changed his mind until he reminded himself that there are exceptions to every rule. Besides, Billy's eyes didn't show emotion, exactly. They just showed Billy.
So, though Orlando wishes it wasn't so, he fell in love with Billy's looks before he truly fell in love with Billy- in love with his kindness, his grace with his humor, with how he always knew what to say in that lilting, rolling accent...
That came later.
~*~
Orlando twirled and gyrated in the thicker crowd near the stage. Bodies slid and spun around him like syrup as the songs and the hours blurred together. Billy was laughing loudly to Dom- they were dancing vigorously at each other on the other side of the floor. Orlando kept his eyes on them, though he couldn't hear anything over the wailing singer and the bass ramming through his body so steadily that he could still feel it between beats.
When the last song ended and no other followed, Orlando tore his gaze away and looked toward the stage. The vocalist was giving up his mic and retiring to the back of the stage, nursing a water bottle. The lead guitarist came forward to take his place. He fiddled with his instrument for a minute, then nodded to the drummer. His solo was faster than most of the other songs and a true technical challenge, perhaps to make up for its being purely instrumental.
Orlando turned around and promptly stopped at the sight that met his eyes. Billy was dancing. Not dancing in the provocative, wild step of the others on the floor, but actually encompassing the movement and the music as they were. Orlando had no idea what he was seeing, only that it was incredible and it was Billy and it was more than he could fathom.
The dance wasn't anything he could place. He didn't know it, but it didn't seem traditional or improvised. The closest he could come was some kind of flamenco, but that seemed almost an insult to what he was seeing because it so clearly wasn't. And besides, Billy doing flamenco would be ridiculous, not magical.
The connection might have come from Billy's arms and hands, which he seemed to be using to communicate in a language somewhere between antiquated and imaginary. It might have come from Billy's feet, creating intricate patters that were at once precise and comfortable. It might have come from the erratic beat one of Billy's hands was now tapping out on his thigh, somehow always managing to fit perfectly with the guitarist, although Orlando was fairly sure he was improvising.
It wasn't even the dance that was the most startling. What kept Orlando's gaze was that Billy had somehow turned inward. There wasn't really any other way to put it. He didn't seem to register the room or the people around him. It was as if he was lost in his own world in which only the music and his dancing existed.
The last chord of the song rang and Orlando watched in fascination as reality gradually faded back into Billy's face. He saw the few people who had been half-watching him, though none of them registered what they'd seen as particularly unusual. He carelessly tossed a few words to them over the discord of the next song and melted into a sea of bodies, once more out of Orlando's sight.
~*~
It wasn't just Orlando. Billy could charm the socks off anyone- literally. On February 14th, Elijah had convinced a relatively impressive number of people to try to incorporate something red into their costumes. The prank had varied success.
Elijah dressed in all red, which he was promptly divested of. Dom appeared sporting sparkly red eye shadow, matching lipstick, and an innocent expression. For his part, Orlando tied Legolas's hair back with a red bow, which was quickly confiscated.
The only person who managed to keep their costume was Billy. He surrendered a red shirt and bandana willingly enough, but raised a protest when they tried to strip him of his red socks. His smile seemed to rationalize all his arguments, and he had everyone thoroughly charmed, if not entirely convinced, in a matter of minutes.
PJ met the indignant glares of the wardrobe girls, sighed, and didn't shoot Pippin's feet that day.
The hobbits (bar Frodo) had very little to shoot that day and disappeared into Dom's trailer before Orlando's day was even half over. As soon as he was transformed from elf to twentieth century human, he hurried to Billy's. No one was there, just as he'd hoped. He fished a small piece of paper, creased from nervous folding, out of his pocket. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he slipped it under Billy's door and retreated hastily.
The words penned on it messily played over and over in his mind, sounding more pathetic each time. He had a feeling he'd never forget them- he'd agonized over them all day.
Dear Mr. Red Socks,
I'm still lost in the perfect rhythm of your eyes.
Orlando.
With a sigh, he trudged off to find something entertaining to do while he waited.
~*~
It was about eleven o'clock when Orlando left Elijah's. Anxiety had faded into disappointment as light had faded into evening, and he gathered it around him as he walked home through the loneliness of the night.
Halfway there a faint melody reached his ears, dissected and distorted by distance and the chilling breeze. Curious, he tracked it to Billy's trailer. The lights were off and it appeared to be as lifeless as its neighbors, but quiet guitar emanated from its depth. The door was slightly ajar. After what had to be at least a few minutes of hesitancy, he pushed it open.
Billy sat in the middle of the room, cradling his guitar. A stream of moonlight slanted through a window on Orlando's left, glancing of his bent head and illuminating his fingers as they danced over the strings, though his face was in shadow. He had turned inside himself again, utterly absorbed in his music and his mind.
Orlando watched and listened from the darkness of the doorway for an immeasurable period. The night and the solo melody blended together to confuse all conventional concepts of time. Time stopped altogether, though, when Billy snapped outward. His head jerked up; his eyes blazed in the flood of moonlight. His fiery gaze caught Orlando's and held long after Orlando would have looked away. His song got faster, more intense, though it was still quiet.
Billy suddenly stood, leaving the guitar on the chair behind him. The silence rang loud and discordant as he advanced. He stopped at the doorway, never once breaking eye contact. Slowly, he raise his hands, then paused like he was unsure or had thought better of his actions. They froze that way for a moment.
Then Billy made contact, running his thumbs gently under Orlando's eyes as if brushing away invisible tears. They continued in a fluid motion to trace his cheekbones, then momentarily cup his face. Billy took a step away, the smooth glide of his retreating hands making Orlando's breath catch. His hands remained outstretched and empty until Billy finally looked away, walking past Orlando and into the night without a word.
When Orlando finally got home, he found that a familiar piece of paper had been slipped under his door- his note. The reverse side was covered in a smooth, plain handwriting he identified as Billy's. It read,
Do not be so quick to waste and ruin what you have.
You have a pure soul. Anyone can see it in your eyes.
There was no signature.
~*~
Over the next year, Billy watched the consequences of his actions play out. He watched as Orlano's gaze slowly shifted to Elijah, watched as he finally abandoned eyes the color of the stormy ocean for those of the bluest summer sky. Finally, Orlando was free to fly.
Billy sat alone, creating melodies that rose from his soul and called to the sky, and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see his tears shimmer momentarily silver in the moonlight.
whew.
Pairing: Billy/?, kind of implied
Rated: PG
Word count: 130
Note(s): ...yeah...
Billy stares sightlessly out the window, letting the autumn wind chill away the gritty, unsettled itch of the night's insomnia. After a moment he lets his eyes focus, somehow startled at how far from dark the night seems to bee. Ghostly, unfamiliar trees and distant, unfamiliar constellations fail to completely obscure the face that persists in dominating his imagination.
Silhouetted leaves dance in the breeze, momentarily swirling to form high, blue-black cheekbones and a sharp chin. Dark clusters parted to reveal glimmers of the night, creating sea-colored eyes that are at once wild, proud, and haunted. Then the leaves stir and the image vanishes, lingering only in his mind. Billy remains at the window for a moment longer before he has to turn away, closing his eyes against the moonlight.
Pairing: Monaboyd
Rated: high PG or low PG-13 for mentions, no detail
Word count: 244
Note(s): I like this one. It amuses me.
It seems as though people have always been asking Dom questions. Where are you going? When will you be back? Where were you? Who is that? Have you done your work? Are you finished yet? Are you sure? What are you (do you think you're) doing? He's grown adept at creating answers, true or untrue, almost as he is saying them.
There are some questions, however, that he simply cannot cope with. The first he remembers was his childhood friend Alec's last day in school before he moved three hours away. Eleven-year-old Dom had jokingly told him to "have a nice life". The next thing he know a teacher had pulled him aside to say that an anonymous classmate had been concerned that he was suicidal. He froze. His body flashed hot, then cold; he sweated. He managed to rattle off something convincing enough, but the incident left him so shaken that he didn't tell anyone about it for a year.
The second question that stands out in Dom's memory was really his fault. He had been showing a friend some of the things he had written (which, granted, were all rather morbid and involved several suicides), but he still went hot and cold and had to seriously restrain himself when his friend asked if he cut.
When Billy's lips press against his, sweat flashes fire and ice over Dominic's body and he wonders vaguely why no one ever asked if he was gay.
Pairing: Dom/Billy, implied Dom/Elijah
Rated: PG
Word count: 145
Note(s): I just typed Toes instead of Notes. Interesting.
It couldn't have lasted long, Billy had known it wouldn't from the beginning. Opposites are known to attract, but not known to work together. And he and Dom were opposites, despite how everyone constantly paired and mixed them up. Dom was overconfident, Billy was insecure. Dom was just this side of too immature, Billy was just this side of getting too old for this. Dom liked (needed) the spotlight, Billy preferred the shadows. Dom wanted excitement, Billy wanted safe and familiar and maybe to settle down.
Still, Dom hadn't said anything and Billy wasn't willing to give up what he had. So he overlooked how Elijah's name began to invade their conversations, just as he overlooked how Elijah's clothes began to invade their room. He simply pleased the interviewers and told the flashing cameras and smiles how wonderfully alike he and Dom seemed to be.
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rated: PG
Word count: 207
Note(s): The first real fluff I've ever written. Urk.
At the moment, Dom can't think of anywhere he'd rather be than Billy's bed, can't think of anyone he'd rather be with than its owner. In fact, he could probably spend eternity just not moving. Warmth seeps into his very bones from the gold of late afternoon sun, preserved by the twisted blanket thrown over the lower half of him and the sturdy body pressed against his back. Billy's murmur flows steadily over him in a wash of open vowels...
"Hmmmm?" More of an elongated exhalation than an inquiry. Dom turns his head, watching wall-ceiling-wall stretch languidly through his sight.
"Angels are most often found where they are least expected," repeats Billy, laughter ringing in a quiet harmony to his words.
"What?"
"Your name. Dominic. It's Latin." Billy's arm (the one not tucked underneath his head) plays lazily in Dom's hair, bringing his elbow and arm level with Dom's nose and neck. He feels a slight urge to lick, but decides it's not worth the effort.
"It means "belonging to God."
"Mmm." Dom feels like he's thinking through honey. "Wha'bout Billy?"
"William. It's English."
"No...whassit mean?" His words blend together with the unhurried proximity of sleep. Billy smiles as Dom drowsily curls into him.
"It means 'protector'."
Pairing: Er. Dom?
Rated: PG
Word Count: 235
Note(s): Pointless blather.
Dom stares blankly at the glaring light of his monitor. The picture it shows hasn't changed at all. A red bar glares at him, informing him that he is using 93% of his inbox (because he refuses to get rid of anything, be it material or cybernetic). His five latest messages are displayed below it- two from Elijah, one from some recruiting political party, one from Orlando, another from Elijah.
His desk is littered with dirty dishes, mail, scrap paper with assorted phone numbers and useless information, a notebook, two uncharged cordless phones, a few cds, and a pile of used tissues that are thrust behind the monitor (out of sight, out of mind). The black keyboard is speckled with white from his nervous habit of rubbing at the dry patch above his right eyebrow. The desk is backed up against the window, a shade that once could have been "cream" and is now simply "dirty" crookedly shielding his view of the street.
He opens it with an angry jerk. The outside light is bleak and as unforgiving as ice. It makes the florescence of his computer look faint and sickly in contrast. He presses the "check mail" button. It grumbles for a minute (he hasn't turned the thing off in three days), and presents him with the now overly familiar screen.
Dom lowers his head into his hands and rubs at his aching eyes.
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rated: PG
Word count: 674
Note(s): I finally gave in and wrote treegod!Dom. I am so ashamed of myself. However, I adore the Billy in this fic. Also, this is actually a fic, with a plot of sorts.
Billy has always loved to climb trees. He's never been particularly good at it, never been able to swing himself through the branches in the unthinking glide of over-up-over-up-over-up, but he enjoys it. He climbs in forests, where no one can see that he doesn't exude some unconscious connection to the trees. He can almost pretend he does when no one is there to correct him. Besides, even if he isn't graceful, he still doesn't quite clamber.
Billy picks the trees he climbs without much thought. He doesn't go near the old, majestic, towering type. They seem as if perhaps they would be sullied by his inexperienced human touch. Their branches start high off the ground, too. He doesn't like whippy, scented trees, the kind that are likely to sport needles. They seem menacing, with an arrogant promise to smear him with sap and greenery and lash twigs into his face. Billy prefers quiet trees. Trees with brown or gray calloused bark, trees with limbs broad and sturdy enough to be comforting without being intimidating. He likes trees that don't whisk energetically in the wind, but that don't threaten to impart dark secrets in the whispering of their leaves. Billy chooses everyday, middle-aged trees that don't have anything in particular to say but enjoy a little company. Billy likes trees that like him.
Billy is almost asleep when something sends ripples through his calm. It isn't intrusive, like someone lobbing stones into a pool from a bridge above. The ripples seem natural, something that belongs, but awakens his notice just the same. Curious, he pulls himself upright and lets his gaze drift past his shoes, around several branches, and over the green-scattered ground.
Dom is walking slowly through the forest, though he doesn't seem preoccupied with his own thoughts as much as he seems preoccupied with the world around him. His path winds randomly as if he feels a magnetic pull from the trees all around him and follows whichever is strongest. He pauses in front of each tree, sometimes reaching out to touch them, sometimes only solemnly regarding them for a moment before moving on. The grandest trees seem only old and majestic, not intimidating, when Dom touches them. Their secrets wash over him, leaving depth but not shadows behind in his eyes. Or perhaps he already knows their secrets. The young, lashing trees seem only wild, not arrogant, and sing under his hands.
Billy forgets to hold his breath when Dom pauses under his tree. He almost feels it shift beneath him, feels some sort of answer pulse through the bark under his hands. Maybe he's just too far into Rings. After a long moment, he finally realizes that Dom is speaking. At first he strains to hear, but somehow it isn't right to concentrate here. Instead, he watches Dom's blunt fingers caress the ridged bark and lets Dom's quiet voice wash over him, catching the words in the back of his mind to be sorted later.
I just want to touch him sometimes. Want to reach out and hold him and tell him everything will be okay. I wonder if he knows how much he hurts inside sometimes, or if you can only tell by looking into his eyes.
Perhaps, thinks Billy, Dom was greeting the trees.
It would be different out here, I think. With sunlight and shade and oxygen. I think I could bare his gaze better out here. I wonder what he would see.
It occurs to Billy that Dom moves so silently because he is barefoot.
Billy.
Dom traces five letters onto the bark and moves off again. Billy doesn't stop him, doesn't call after him, doesn't make any move to leave his perch. There will be a time for that. For now, he just smiles up into the sky and listens to the leaves above him rustle with quiet laughter.
Besides, it's easier to forget that he's never been particularly good at climbing trees when there is no one around to watch him do it.
Pairing: Viggo/Dom, sort of
Rated: PG
Word count: 434
Note(s): Rambly Viggo. Wheee.
Viggo sometimes wondered if his soul was made of plant. He'd never really liked winter, especially the stale-ice chill that was sure to rear against him when his plane arrived in New York in six hours. Here, however, he could almost forget what awaited him.
He wandered slowly through the silent Montana dawn. It was grayish and the air was crystal with water that pooled persistently in every available hollow. Viggo hadn't realized how much he wilted over the brittle dryness of winter until he finally stepped out of the airport and into the rain.
He definitely felt more at home in the empty, unfamiliar streets than in the fluorescent cheer of the airport. He could almost feel himself absorbing water as he walked, although he couldn't quite shake the confining feeling of dress shoes. The tan-and-cream borrowed cell phone warmed pleasantly in his hand, comfortably reminiscent of a stone.
He leaned his thumb against a button. The screen flared briefly and ineffectually, reminding him of the sitcom-yellow reading lights of the plane. A cursor blinked in too regimented a rhythm. Viggo paused in his walk to push slowly at bottoms too smooth under his calloused fingers.
3 666 6.
Dom.
I'm here in Montana. It's almost six in the morning. It's gorgeous out. Sort of between rain and mist. It's wonderful to be outside in the growth again.
444 66 68.
In MT.
At times I wish we'd never done Rings. It's next to impossible to get away from all the publicity. Or if I have to deal with it, I wish someone else who could understand was here. I wish you were here.
6 444 7777 7777 0 999 666 88.
Miss you.
He deleted that.
'Lij told me you're visiting Billy. It's just bloody lovely that you two are still so close.
44 666 9 7777 0 22 444 555 555. Hows Bill?
Staring at the inadequate message, Viggo realized that his thoughts had unconsciously switched into Dom's voice. Interesting.
His words blinked back up at him, impersonal and incomplete. He leaned on the button to delete them, leaned until his message vanished and the phone turned off. He dropped in into the pocket of the jacket tied around his waist. It was light enough that he could barely feel it against his thigh.
Taking one last breath of the morning, he turned and headed back to the airport.
The next day, Dom flicked on his cell phone and was informed that he had received one new text message. It read,
Sometimes I wonder if my soul is made of plant.
Pairing: Implied Orlando/Craig, Dom/Surpise. ^_^
Rated: PG, maybe bordering on PG-13? Dunno.
Word count: 826
Note(s): Definitely a fic, with a plot and a point. Also the first dialogue I've successfully written. I really like this one.
"If you were Orlando-"
"Sean. If I was Orlando, I'd jump off a cliff. Without the bungee cord," quipped Dom from where he sprawled languorously on the floor.
"No, seriously. If you were Orlando, would you come out publicly?"
"Orlando doesn't need to come out,” called Elijah from the kitchen, "Anyone who looks at him and doesn't think 'not quite straight' is either dead or a fangirl in total denial that she'll never have a chance with him-"
"Either way, not someone who deserves to know," finished Dom.
"Could you have guessed, before he told you?" inquired Billy, draped horizontally over the overstuffed armchair.
"Well, no..." admitted Elijah. He flopped bonelessly on the floor beside Dom, who gave him an upside-down grin and swiped a bottle of soda from his hand.
"'Lij doesn't count, anyway. Anyone else would've noticed."
"Seriously, though?" Sean nodded. Billy shifted in his chair, considering it. "Maybe. Hard to imagine- Dom, don't drink that, you'll spill it all over everything- what the public reaction would be."
"The media'd have a field day," commented Elijah, pausing in his apparently fascinating game of tossing M&Ms into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth. His continuous failure didn't seem to detract from his enthusiasm.
"He'd ruin his chances for the future," said Dom, attempting to discover a way to drink from a full bottle of soda while lying down, "and besides, it's really his business anyway."
"Maybe," Elijah said, “he should just come out to Craig."
"Craig?"
"Well, he might be a little more encouraged to consider something if he knew Orlando wasn't strictly...er...on the other side of the spectrum."
Dom snorted.
"I'm sure Craig knows well enough. Haven't we been over this?" he said, emphasizing his words with his hands and very nearly drenching everyone with soda in the process.
"I don't know," said Sean, "he strikes me as the reserved type. I doubt he'd act on just an assumption. Especially about something like that. Dom, either sit up and drink that or give it to me before you ruin Billy's rug."
"Again," put in the owner of the rug in question.
Dom pulled himself upright with an exaggerated sigh, gulped a mouthful of soda, and promptly choked. When he managed to swallow, he thrust the bottle at Elijah, eyes watering slightly.
"That's bloody disgusting! What is that stuff?" He flopped dramatically back to the floor. There was a silent pause.
"You know," said Dom to no one in particular, "I've never liked soda."
"So, Dom?" There was a pause. Dom raised one eyebrow. He and Sean were standing outside his house, facing each other in the fading light.
Sean sighed. "Do you really think that conversation was about Orlando and Craig?"
"Wasn't it?"
Sean turned the patented It's-No-Use-I've-Already-Found-Where-You-Hid-Your-Report-Card look on him, full force. Dom squirmed.
"Dom. You look at Billy like Christine looks at a six dollar chocolate bar once a month."
"Oh, so I'm in love with Billy?" said Dom, using his eyebrows to put quotes around the last four words. "What do you want me to do, corner him behind the makeup trailer and say 'Sorry, Bills, but I'm really flamingly gay and fancy the pants off you'?" Dom's voice dripped with sarcasm, but his gaze flickered down and away from Sean's eyes.
"Well, you could always just kiss him. That seems to work in most movies."
For a moment, Dom stood perfectly still, face unreadable. Then he lunged. Before Sean could register what was happening, he was pinned against the door and Dom was kissing him for all he was worth. It was sudden, it was intense, it was passionate, and it was edged with steel and desperation.
Dom pulled away after a moment, eyes blazing.
"Look, I know that was stupid of me. Best mates and all, which I probably just ruined, and the whole heterosexual thing. But I just couldn't cope with it any longer. Ever since I first saw you, you've been driving me crazy, you know. You're always there. Shooting, talking, offset, onset. I can't get away from you; I wouldn't want to if I could. But you have no idea what you're doing to me. Every time you're angry at me, even just in fun, it hurts. Every time you're sad, or angry, or tired, it affects me. Do you have any idea how much of my life I spend worrying about you? I'm sorry, I truly am. I shouldn't have said any of this, I've probably ruined our friendship and the film and everything in the whole bloody world, but I just can't deal with it anymore."
He stepped back, breathing a little heavily, staring almost imploringly into Sean's eyes. Sean gaped, absolutely wordless.
After a few seconds that felt like eternity to Sean, Dom rocked back on his heels, hands in his back pockets, and broke into a full grin.
“So, how'd I do? Think Billy will be impressed?”
Title: Your Eyes
Rated: PG
Pairing: Orlando/Billy, Orlando/Elijah
Notes: Written for Chelsea for the lotr_loveletter challenge, but never posted here. Figured I'd finish up with a real fic. And yes, I did steal a line from the first drabble to put in here.
As much as Orlando would hate to admit it, it was Billy's eyes that started the whole thing. Eyes that he fell in love with the first time he saw them up close and then couldn't forget.
Orlando was a firm subscriber to the belief that eyes cannot actually show emotion- he'd even stood in front of the mirror and tried to change the look in his eyes. Needless to say, he didn't succeed. Sure, he could portray emotions, but only using his face.
Billy's eyes almost changed his mind until he reminded himself that there are exceptions to every rule. Besides, Billy's eyes didn't show emotion, exactly. They just showed Billy.
So, though Orlando wishes it wasn't so, he fell in love with Billy's looks before he truly fell in love with Billy- in love with his kindness, his grace with his humor, with how he always knew what to say in that lilting, rolling accent...
That came later.
Orlando twirled and gyrated in the thicker crowd near the stage. Bodies slid and spun around him like syrup as the songs and the hours blurred together. Billy was laughing loudly to Dom- they were dancing vigorously at each other on the other side of the floor. Orlando kept his eyes on them, though he couldn't hear anything over the wailing singer and the bass ramming through his body so steadily that he could still feel it between beats.
When the last song ended and no other followed, Orlando tore his gaze away and looked toward the stage. The vocalist was giving up his mic and retiring to the back of the stage, nursing a water bottle. The lead guitarist came forward to take his place. He fiddled with his instrument for a minute, then nodded to the drummer. His solo was faster than most of the other songs and a true technical challenge, perhaps to make up for its being purely instrumental.
Orlando turned around and promptly stopped at the sight that met his eyes. Billy was dancing. Not dancing in the provocative, wild step of the others on the floor, but actually encompassing the movement and the music as they were. Orlando had no idea what he was seeing, only that it was incredible and it was Billy and it was more than he could fathom.
The dance wasn't anything he could place. He didn't know it, but it didn't seem traditional or improvised. The closest he could come was some kind of flamenco, but that seemed almost an insult to what he was seeing because it so clearly wasn't. And besides, Billy doing flamenco would be ridiculous, not magical.
The connection might have come from Billy's arms and hands, which he seemed to be using to communicate in a language somewhere between antiquated and imaginary. It might have come from Billy's feet, creating intricate patters that were at once precise and comfortable. It might have come from the erratic beat one of Billy's hands was now tapping out on his thigh, somehow always managing to fit perfectly with the guitarist, although Orlando was fairly sure he was improvising.
It wasn't even the dance that was the most startling. What kept Orlando's gaze was that Billy had somehow turned inward. There wasn't really any other way to put it. He didn't seem to register the room or the people around him. It was as if he was lost in his own world in which only the music and his dancing existed.
The last chord of the song rang and Orlando watched in fascination as reality gradually faded back into Billy's face. He saw the few people who had been half-watching him, though none of them registered what they'd seen as particularly unusual. He carelessly tossed a few words to them over the discord of the next song and melted into a sea of bodies, once more out of Orlando's sight.
It wasn't just Orlando. Billy could charm the socks off anyone- literally. On February 14th, Elijah had convinced a relatively impressive number of people to try to incorporate something red into their costumes. The prank had varied success.
Elijah dressed in all red, which he was promptly divested of. Dom appeared sporting sparkly red eye shadow, matching lipstick, and an innocent expression. For his part, Orlando tied Legolas's hair back with a red bow, which was quickly confiscated.
The only person who managed to keep their costume was Billy. He surrendered a red shirt and bandana willingly enough, but raised a protest when they tried to strip him of his red socks. His smile seemed to rationalize all his arguments, and he had everyone thoroughly charmed, if not entirely convinced, in a matter of minutes.
PJ met the indignant glares of the wardrobe girls, sighed, and didn't shoot Pippin's feet that day.
The hobbits (bar Frodo) had very little to shoot that day and disappeared into Dom's trailer before Orlando's day was even half over. As soon as he was transformed from elf to twentieth century human, he hurried to Billy's. No one was there, just as he'd hoped. He fished a small piece of paper, creased from nervous folding, out of his pocket. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he slipped it under Billy's door and retreated hastily.
The words penned on it messily played over and over in his mind, sounding more pathetic each time. He had a feeling he'd never forget them- he'd agonized over them all day.
I'm still lost in the perfect rhythm of your eyes.
Orlando.
With a sigh, he trudged off to find something entertaining to do while he waited.
It was about eleven o'clock when Orlando left Elijah's. Anxiety had faded into disappointment as light had faded into evening, and he gathered it around him as he walked home through the loneliness of the night.
Halfway there a faint melody reached his ears, dissected and distorted by distance and the chilling breeze. Curious, he tracked it to Billy's trailer. The lights were off and it appeared to be as lifeless as its neighbors, but quiet guitar emanated from its depth. The door was slightly ajar. After what had to be at least a few minutes of hesitancy, he pushed it open.
Billy sat in the middle of the room, cradling his guitar. A stream of moonlight slanted through a window on Orlando's left, glancing of his bent head and illuminating his fingers as they danced over the strings, though his face was in shadow. He had turned inside himself again, utterly absorbed in his music and his mind.
Orlando watched and listened from the darkness of the doorway for an immeasurable period. The night and the solo melody blended together to confuse all conventional concepts of time. Time stopped altogether, though, when Billy snapped outward. His head jerked up; his eyes blazed in the flood of moonlight. His fiery gaze caught Orlando's and held long after Orlando would have looked away. His song got faster, more intense, though it was still quiet.
Billy suddenly stood, leaving the guitar on the chair behind him. The silence rang loud and discordant as he advanced. He stopped at the doorway, never once breaking eye contact. Slowly, he raise his hands, then paused like he was unsure or had thought better of his actions. They froze that way for a moment.
Then Billy made contact, running his thumbs gently under Orlando's eyes as if brushing away invisible tears. They continued in a fluid motion to trace his cheekbones, then momentarily cup his face. Billy took a step away, the smooth glide of his retreating hands making Orlando's breath catch. His hands remained outstretched and empty until Billy finally looked away, walking past Orlando and into the night without a word.
When Orlando finally got home, he found that a familiar piece of paper had been slipped under his door- his note. The reverse side was covered in a smooth, plain handwriting he identified as Billy's. It read,
You have a pure soul. Anyone can see it in your eyes.
There was no signature.
Over the next year, Billy watched the consequences of his actions play out. He watched as Orlano's gaze slowly shifted to Elijah, watched as he finally abandoned eyes the color of the stormy ocean for those of the bluest summer sky. Finally, Orlando was free to fly.
Billy sat alone, creating melodies that rose from his soul and called to the sky, and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see his tears shimmer momentarily silver in the moonlight.
whew.
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*discreetly pours her faygo and tree leaf concoction down the drain, as it now has no purpose*