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fellowshippers2004-05-24 02:37 am
sophrosyne31.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-05-24 02:37 am
Cairdeas, Chapter 6
Title: Cairdeas, Chapter 6
Authors: Sophrosyne31 and Sparktastic
Pairing: Billy/Orlando
Rating: Overall NC17, each part rated separately, this part M
Summary: Set in May-June 2007, Orlando and Billy are working on a film together in Scotland.
Disclaimer: If this comes true, we will be very happy, but we rather doubt it will.
Previous chapters are Introduction, Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5.
Orlando’s drunk enough now to feel nothing but his feet. They’re so heavy, as he walks out of the toilet, and they clump him across to the bar. Another drink, yes thanks, yeah, my friend will pay, and Orlando’s found a nice wall to lean against.
He wasn’t so drunk ten minutes ago. Ten minutes ago he had his cheek up against Billy’s, and the little fuzz of stubble against his skin had buzzed through to his bones, and somehow it’s woken up the alcohol in him, made it radioactive, because now Orlando’s trembling all over, and if his feet are solid lead, then his skull is made of pumice, and there’s something small and winged flying frantic through his veins. Even his metaphors are all fucked up.
His mouth is awfully dry, no matter how big a gulp he takes from the glass in his hand (what is it, something pale brown and firey, god help him he’s in Scotland, it’s probably whiskey). Through the flutters in his mind he remembers Billy’s breath on his lips, damp and soft breath, and Billy’s eyes full of something drenching, drenched through with a hopeful, no not hopeful, with a brave and tender wash, like a curtain of water in sunlight, but no, because Billy’s eyes are so green, it must be something else…
He’s so involved with distracting himself by sorting through words that Bill Nighy’s hand on his shoulder makes him jump. The other actor cranes down to shout in Orlando’s ear, and it’s only then that Orlando realises how loud the music is, he thought it was the dinning of the insect in his skull, no that was…
“We’re calling it a night. Got to move out early tomorrow to get to location. We’ll see you in the carpark at 7, ok? Us old fellows have got to have our repose, you know.” Bill waits for Orlando to say something flippant, and when Orlando just stares at him blankly, he claps his hand on the shoulder again and pushes on. Orlando’s drink is empty and he casts about for somewhere to go. The wall’s had enough of him now.
The club is still full, and Orlando thinks he sees Billy’s head out there on the dance floor and that’s good, because it means Billy’s far away, but it’s sad too because Billy’s his mate and Orlando’s here on a new set in a strange city. There’s no one who seems close to him tonight except for Billy, with his peppermint smile and complicit winks and the way he just slides into every chair and lays his hands along the arms with a happy slap, and the way Billy dances, like a fourteen year old. Orlando’s moving into the mush of the dance crowd before he knows it.
The head isn’t Billy, though.
“You right, mate?” the head says: a small red-haired guy with a wonky nose. Orlando’s hands come off the man’s shoulders with a wide gesture that seems to clip a nearby woman in the ear but he’s not sure because he’s walking very carefully out of the crowd again, suddenly feeling tragically lost and alone and shaky again on his unreliable feet.
The hand comes out from behind a dancing pair of women, just a small hand but it catches Orlando by the edge of the shirt and even as it’s tugging him sharply off-balance Orlando knows that’s Billy. There’s already a smile on Orlando’s face before he sees him, grinning up, grinning but with a little flicker in his eyes, an extra wrinkle.
“Orli? You travelling well there my man?”
Orlando just grins, with the smile feeling silly on his face, and turns to face Billy straight on, and his hands come up again into the wide gesture that happens to be the exact width of Billy’s shoulders.
“Travelling well. Travelling,” Orlando says, through the sticky smile, and he knows, as he always knows, that the two women nearby are looking at him. The others too, there’s always fucking people staring but it’s like air now, you just breathe it in and out and forget about it, and all the stares are nothing more than atmosphere as he bends down to suck in air and close distance and lay his mouth against Billy’s.
Then he wishes there were more air, because Billy’s lips rest against his, and they’re not opening, they’re just there, so soft but backed with the firmness of teeth and resolve, and Orlando can smell the soft brown scent of whiskey in his own throat. And an awful rancid taste of embarrassment. Billy’s not kissing, and is that what he’s doing, him, Orlando? Because he hadn’t thought he wanted to kiss Billy anymore. Not since those days. And it looks like Billy doesn’t want to kiss him.
Orlando’s about to crane back, and blame the fact that his face is pressed into Billy’s on a shove in the back, or something, but that insect in his skull, veins, whatever—it’s stuck in his throat now, fluttering and hectic, jagged little wings obstructing all the thoughts and words. He’s almost panicking now, glued to Billy’s mouth and still drunk, stupid drunk, stupid, the horrible flapping inside and his lips so still, their heads jammed together and the music banging around them—
—when Billy’s lips squirm under Orlando’s, and they part, and everything unsticks because the inside of Billy’s mouth is wet and Orlando slides right in.
He feels like his whole body is inside Billy’s mouth, and that’s strange, because that’s like sex, slithering right into someone’s heat, but this is just a stupid kiss and he doesn’t even quite know how it’s happened—but he did it, he’s kissing Billy, and he thinks, Stop thinking, you silly bloody twat, and he slides his tongue around Billy’s, and there’s the music reverberating through him. The insect is gone now there’s just warmth and the taste of Billy, not peppermint now, something more nervous, like saltwater and Orlando’s kissing and kissing Billy, slow and delicate, and the taste is like nostalgia. Thin threads of longing are running down his limbs; the hands that cup Billy’s head are made of water. And Orlando feels like the man he wants to be for Billy, and the longing is for Billy’s skin under his palms, and he thinks of the couch at Billy’s place, and makes a small sound that makes his own hips buck up. He pulls back from the kiss finally, and looks at Billy.
Who’s looking back with something in his eyes that Orlando wants to be desire, but might be fear.
And Orlando stops feeling like a man; and now there’s just too much air in the room. All around, and in his empty throat, and between him and Billy.
Authors: Sophrosyne31 and Sparktastic
Pairing: Billy/Orlando
Rating: Overall NC17, each part rated separately, this part M
Summary: Set in May-June 2007, Orlando and Billy are working on a film together in Scotland.
Disclaimer: If this comes true, we will be very happy, but we rather doubt it will.
Previous chapters are Introduction, Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5.
Orlando’s drunk enough now to feel nothing but his feet. They’re so heavy, as he walks out of the toilet, and they clump him across to the bar. Another drink, yes thanks, yeah, my friend will pay, and Orlando’s found a nice wall to lean against.
He wasn’t so drunk ten minutes ago. Ten minutes ago he had his cheek up against Billy’s, and the little fuzz of stubble against his skin had buzzed through to his bones, and somehow it’s woken up the alcohol in him, made it radioactive, because now Orlando’s trembling all over, and if his feet are solid lead, then his skull is made of pumice, and there’s something small and winged flying frantic through his veins. Even his metaphors are all fucked up.
His mouth is awfully dry, no matter how big a gulp he takes from the glass in his hand (what is it, something pale brown and firey, god help him he’s in Scotland, it’s probably whiskey). Through the flutters in his mind he remembers Billy’s breath on his lips, damp and soft breath, and Billy’s eyes full of something drenching, drenched through with a hopeful, no not hopeful, with a brave and tender wash, like a curtain of water in sunlight, but no, because Billy’s eyes are so green, it must be something else…
He’s so involved with distracting himself by sorting through words that Bill Nighy’s hand on his shoulder makes him jump. The other actor cranes down to shout in Orlando’s ear, and it’s only then that Orlando realises how loud the music is, he thought it was the dinning of the insect in his skull, no that was…
“We’re calling it a night. Got to move out early tomorrow to get to location. We’ll see you in the carpark at 7, ok? Us old fellows have got to have our repose, you know.” Bill waits for Orlando to say something flippant, and when Orlando just stares at him blankly, he claps his hand on the shoulder again and pushes on. Orlando’s drink is empty and he casts about for somewhere to go. The wall’s had enough of him now.
The club is still full, and Orlando thinks he sees Billy’s head out there on the dance floor and that’s good, because it means Billy’s far away, but it’s sad too because Billy’s his mate and Orlando’s here on a new set in a strange city. There’s no one who seems close to him tonight except for Billy, with his peppermint smile and complicit winks and the way he just slides into every chair and lays his hands along the arms with a happy slap, and the way Billy dances, like a fourteen year old. Orlando’s moving into the mush of the dance crowd before he knows it.
The head isn’t Billy, though.
“You right, mate?” the head says: a small red-haired guy with a wonky nose. Orlando’s hands come off the man’s shoulders with a wide gesture that seems to clip a nearby woman in the ear but he’s not sure because he’s walking very carefully out of the crowd again, suddenly feeling tragically lost and alone and shaky again on his unreliable feet.
The hand comes out from behind a dancing pair of women, just a small hand but it catches Orlando by the edge of the shirt and even as it’s tugging him sharply off-balance Orlando knows that’s Billy. There’s already a smile on Orlando’s face before he sees him, grinning up, grinning but with a little flicker in his eyes, an extra wrinkle.
“Orli? You travelling well there my man?”
Orlando just grins, with the smile feeling silly on his face, and turns to face Billy straight on, and his hands come up again into the wide gesture that happens to be the exact width of Billy’s shoulders.
“Travelling well. Travelling,” Orlando says, through the sticky smile, and he knows, as he always knows, that the two women nearby are looking at him. The others too, there’s always fucking people staring but it’s like air now, you just breathe it in and out and forget about it, and all the stares are nothing more than atmosphere as he bends down to suck in air and close distance and lay his mouth against Billy’s.
Then he wishes there were more air, because Billy’s lips rest against his, and they’re not opening, they’re just there, so soft but backed with the firmness of teeth and resolve, and Orlando can smell the soft brown scent of whiskey in his own throat. And an awful rancid taste of embarrassment. Billy’s not kissing, and is that what he’s doing, him, Orlando? Because he hadn’t thought he wanted to kiss Billy anymore. Not since those days. And it looks like Billy doesn’t want to kiss him.
Orlando’s about to crane back, and blame the fact that his face is pressed into Billy’s on a shove in the back, or something, but that insect in his skull, veins, whatever—it’s stuck in his throat now, fluttering and hectic, jagged little wings obstructing all the thoughts and words. He’s almost panicking now, glued to Billy’s mouth and still drunk, stupid drunk, stupid, the horrible flapping inside and his lips so still, their heads jammed together and the music banging around them—
—when Billy’s lips squirm under Orlando’s, and they part, and everything unsticks because the inside of Billy’s mouth is wet and Orlando slides right in.
He feels like his whole body is inside Billy’s mouth, and that’s strange, because that’s like sex, slithering right into someone’s heat, but this is just a stupid kiss and he doesn’t even quite know how it’s happened—but he did it, he’s kissing Billy, and he thinks, Stop thinking, you silly bloody twat, and he slides his tongue around Billy’s, and there’s the music reverberating through him. The insect is gone now there’s just warmth and the taste of Billy, not peppermint now, something more nervous, like saltwater and Orlando’s kissing and kissing Billy, slow and delicate, and the taste is like nostalgia. Thin threads of longing are running down his limbs; the hands that cup Billy’s head are made of water. And Orlando feels like the man he wants to be for Billy, and the longing is for Billy’s skin under his palms, and he thinks of the couch at Billy’s place, and makes a small sound that makes his own hips buck up. He pulls back from the kiss finally, and looks at Billy.
Who’s looking back with something in his eyes that Orlando wants to be desire, but might be fear.
And Orlando stops feeling like a man; and now there’s just too much air in the room. All around, and in his empty throat, and between him and Billy.
no subject
*has trouble breathing*
I ... uh... to be honest, I don't really have any constructive feedback for you. You're writing about Billy and Orlando. That's good. The plot of the story. Also good. The images, words and in general sentences that you manage to create. Absolutely brilliant. I think I could spend the rest of my life just reading this for how you write. The story is just icing on the cake.
Good grief, but I need a lie down now.
*remembers to keep breathing*
no subject
*gives mouth-to-mouth*
Now I don't know quite what to say, but that was a lovely comment to wake up to. I promise we'll make Billy and the rascally Orlando do something nice and pictureque for you next time... it's
Merci!
no subject
ARGH!!
Great chapter!!!
no subject
Over to