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fellowshippers2004-06-11 12:36 pm
sophrosyne31.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-06-11 12:36 pm
Fic: It'll poison your blood
Title: It'll poison your blood
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sophrosyne31
Pairing: Dom/Orlando
Rating: G
Disclaimer: the result of too much idleness in class, in other words, fiction
Feedback: write on me
Summary: In the dim ashy light of the twilight pub lights Elijah notices ink on the end of Dom’s middle finger, just behind the nail.
It’s cold and everyone’s in scarves and gloves, but Dom’s are fingerless and he keeps them on even when they all get to the pub. The hobbits and Orli bang into a booth, hasty with the freshness of the air outside and the relief of the warm room. Beers arrive, greasy cold on the fingertips. Dom picks his up with his palms.
In the dim ashy light of the twilight pub lights Elijah notices ink on the end of Dom’s middle finger, just behind the nail.
“And what’s that?”
Dom puts his drink down and tugs the short sleeve of the glove further down his knuckle, uselessly. He smiles at Elijah.
“Nothing.”
“What is it?” says Orlando.
Dom smiles at him, a rather different smile.
“Nothing.”
It’s strange how Orlando’s second smile is almost the same as Dom’s.
**
“You know you’ll just beat me. You’re, like, a pool god.”
“You know that’s not even sarcasm. I will beat you,” says Billy. He hoists Elijah, laden with smirking sulks and beer, up from the chair and pushes him towards the pool table across the room. Dom and Orlando sit a bit forward in their seats across the table.
“So,” says Orlando.
Dom presses his hands flat on the table. Orlando peels the black glove off Dom’s right hand. He leans forward to read.
On the bald knobs of bone at the top of each finger is printed something.
Five desperate knuckles.
Orlando picks up the hand and pulls it closer. Dom goes with it.
On Dom’s wrist, Hold me here.
Orlando turns the hand over. The palm. Where you scalded me.
The hand flips back, and Dom raises it so Orlando can read the writing on the thin skin behind the nail.
“One hungry fingertip.”
Orlando makes that smile again.
“Is there any more?”
Dom looks at him, bright and quiet and intent. “Maybe.”
“My mum always told me not to write on my hand.”
“The rest isn’t—”
Orlando’s mouth makes a whole different smile.
**
The next day, the makeup women scrub the blurred indigo ink from Dom’s hand with scowls and gentleness. In wardrobe, Orlando puts on his costume with his back to the room. Written down his shoulder, in dark purple, are words upside down to his squinting gaze. They’re smeared now anyway.
Last night they said Where teeth might meet.
And there, in tiny, tiny hieroglyphics, on his wrist where they’ll be covered by his gauntlet:
Dominic.
Orlando covers up the stains and seals them into his skin.
Author:
sophrosyne31Pairing: Dom/Orlando
Rating: G
Disclaimer: the result of too much idleness in class, in other words, fiction
Feedback: write on me
Summary: In the dim ashy light of the twilight pub lights Elijah notices ink on the end of Dom’s middle finger, just behind the nail.
It’s cold and everyone’s in scarves and gloves, but Dom’s are fingerless and he keeps them on even when they all get to the pub. The hobbits and Orli bang into a booth, hasty with the freshness of the air outside and the relief of the warm room. Beers arrive, greasy cold on the fingertips. Dom picks his up with his palms.
In the dim ashy light of the twilight pub lights Elijah notices ink on the end of Dom’s middle finger, just behind the nail.
“And what’s that?”
Dom puts his drink down and tugs the short sleeve of the glove further down his knuckle, uselessly. He smiles at Elijah.
“Nothing.”
“What is it?” says Orlando.
Dom smiles at him, a rather different smile.
“Nothing.”
It’s strange how Orlando’s second smile is almost the same as Dom’s.
**
“You know you’ll just beat me. You’re, like, a pool god.”
“You know that’s not even sarcasm. I will beat you,” says Billy. He hoists Elijah, laden with smirking sulks and beer, up from the chair and pushes him towards the pool table across the room. Dom and Orlando sit a bit forward in their seats across the table.
“So,” says Orlando.
Dom presses his hands flat on the table. Orlando peels the black glove off Dom’s right hand. He leans forward to read.
On the bald knobs of bone at the top of each finger is printed something.
Five desperate knuckles.
Orlando picks up the hand and pulls it closer. Dom goes with it.
On Dom’s wrist, Hold me here.
Orlando turns the hand over. The palm. Where you scalded me.
The hand flips back, and Dom raises it so Orlando can read the writing on the thin skin behind the nail.
“One hungry fingertip.”
Orlando makes that smile again.
“Is there any more?”
Dom looks at him, bright and quiet and intent. “Maybe.”
“My mum always told me not to write on my hand.”
“The rest isn’t—”
Orlando’s mouth makes a whole different smile.
**
The next day, the makeup women scrub the blurred indigo ink from Dom’s hand with scowls and gentleness. In wardrobe, Orlando puts on his costume with his back to the room. Written down his shoulder, in dark purple, are words upside down to his squinting gaze. They’re smeared now anyway.
Last night they said Where teeth might meet.
And there, in tiny, tiny hieroglyphics, on his wrist where they’ll be covered by his gauntlet:
Dominic.
Orlando covers up the stains and seals them into his skin.