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unautremonde) wrote2004-03-09 01:13 am
"Othello" - PG 13, OB/EW
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: Well, I did ask Santa for the boys, but... When I got up wednesday morning, all I found under the tree was the following letter:
"Dear Jem,So, I guess I still don't own them and can't make claims as to what their sexual habits
delusional naughty girls do not get Christmas presents. Try again next year.
Yours truly, Santa Claus."
Author's Note: This fic is dedicated to
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megolas, who not only did an amazing job as our Secret Slasha Claus (heeeee!), this year, but also spent a lot of time listening to me whine on AIM. I hope you get better soon. Mwha! Also, thank you soooooooo much to hjartad for the impromptu beta. Oh, yeah, and last but not least, thanks to William for letting me borrow one of his titles and quotes. Bill, you rock. ;-)OTHELLO
O, beware, my lord, of jealousy;
It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock
The meat it feeds on.
Othello – Shakespeare
The whole promotion circus does have a few good sides, Elijah thinks, as Sean walks into the room, followed closely by Billy and Guinness. Not that they don’t see each other on a fairly regular basis during the year, but it’s still the first time—in way too long—that they’re all in the same room.
Hobbits, Elves, Men.
Most of them, anyway.
Well, elf, really. Elijah can’t find Orlando anywhere. So it’s Craig’s duty to represent Middle Earth’s noblest race. For now.
Someone—Viggo maybe, certainly sounds like him—is trying to convince Dom that his particular choice of CD isn’t the right one for the present company. Elijah doesn’t bother to look or listen any further. He knows Dom will get his way eventually. No one can resist Dom.
Or, rather, not many people can resist Dom. Elijah has, on occasion. Orlando, not so much.
Speaking of whom…
Orlando’s laughter precedes him into the room. Elijah watches, eyes narrowed, as the elf Prince makes his entrance, arm draped over David’s shoulders. Sure looks cozy. Then again, Orlando has always had a thing for the scruffy men of Gondor. David is all smiles, of course, and really, who wouldn’t be?
There’s a snake of burning cold something coiling inside Elijah’s stomach as he watches.
Playful tickles, brushes and hands burrowed in dark curls. Orlando looks like he’s having the time of his life.
Billy plops down next to Elijah and hands him a beer without a word. Elijah takes it gratefully, eyes still trying to burn holes in the back of Orlando’s head. Orlando, of course, remains oblivious.
Billy follows Elijah’s gaze, raises an eyebrow before looking back at Elijah’s frown.
“’Tis a sullen face, me Lord. What gives?”
Elijah can’t help but smile at Billy, and his attention wavers from Orlando for a moment. Billy is grinning widely, eyes shining from a few too many drinks, but expression still concerned enough that Elijah knows Billy won’t be fooled if he tells him “nothing.” He sighs, eyes darting briefly back to where Orlando has now draped himself all over Viggo and Karl.
Of course. Gondor and Rohan. Elijah should have guessed.
He tries to sound nonchalant, detached, unfazed, when he answers Billy’s question.
Fails.
“Same old, Billy. Same old.”
Elijah doesn’t know if it’s late or early anymore, he only knows the party has dwindled down to six or seven of them, and that it’s past time to switch from beer to water. He walks into the kitchen gingerly, making straight for the sink.
A couple of gulps and splashes later, and a warm hand slides under his T-shirt, wraps around his ribs. Elijah stiffens and tries to duck out of Orlando’s possessive embrace.
He fancies he can feel Viggo’s, Karl’s, David’s warmth on Orlando’s palm. Tries to squirm away, to turn around and move out, escape.
Ends up trapped between Orlando and the sink.
There should be warmth, here. Warmth and a whole lot of other familiar feelings that Elijah isn’t able to recognize right now. All he feels is that snake of burning ice uncoiling at the pit of his stomach.
Orlando’s wolfish grin is still oblivious, still predatory, still unaware. His hands are gripping Elijah’s hips with the certainty of familiarity, thumbs softly stroking smooth skin above the waist of Elijah’s trousers.
Elijah refuses to give in, to answer Orlando’s touches with some of his own. He grips the counter behind him tightly, instead. Thinks fuck you. Pushes at Orlando with his shoulder and says “fuck off!”
Orlando staggers back, shocked, expression caught between pissed off and concerned. He searches Elijah’s face for clues, probably can’t find any. Elijah keeps his eyes firmly on the ground, fists clenched at his sides.
“Lij? What the fuck?”
Elijah cringes, manages to lift his eyes to Orlando’s. He thinks he might know what that ice melting at the bottom of his stomach feels like, now. Recognizes it for what it really is. When he speaks, his voice is strained, barely loud enough even for Orlando to hear. “Did you fuck him?”
Orlando’s eyes widen slightly, a gleam flashes in the dark depths.
“Did I fuck who?”
Elijah shudders at Orlando’s chilling voice, at the sudden determination he can read on his face. He clenches his fists tighter, holds Orlando’s glare. His voice isn’t as steady as he wants it to be when he pushes the topic further, tries to break through Orlando’s defenses.
“Don’t play dumb, Orlando. You know who. Did the whole pirate gig turn you on? Made you all hot and horny for him? Did you two play dress up after hours? Did you fuck him, Orli? Or did he fuck you?”
Orlando laughs. Razor sharp peels of humorless laughter, the gleam still in his eyes. Elijah doesn’t even have time to register movement before Orlando is pressed against him, nails digging in his upper arms. He can feel the bruises forming, pictures little half-moon tattoos on his skin. Orlando leans in and Elijah catches his breath, winces as the nails dig further. Orlando’s breath is hot in his ear, Orlando’s teeth sharp as they nibble on his earlobe.
Elijah tries to remember how to breathe.
“Why, Lij? Does it matter? Does it matter whether I answer your question or not?”
Yes, Elijah definitely recognizes anger as it seeps through from his stomach into his veins. He recognizes it, embraces it and pushes hard at Orlando’s shoulders, teeth bared as he hisses:
“I told you to fuck off!”
Orlando laughs again, but doesn’t so much as stumble, stays right where he is, unmovable. Elijah struggles against him, vainly tries to shake him off one last time.
Lets himself be overpowered.
Orlando effectively pins him to the counter with his hips, nails still digging painfully into Elijah’s arms.
There’s bound to be blood, now.
The heat that rises from their entwined bodies feels only slightly more familiar than the anger that is still seething through his blood. Elijah shifts, looks straight into Orlando’s eyes. They’re very dark eyes, further shadowed by long strands of black curly hair.
Very expressive eyes, too.
Elijah closes his own eyes in an attempt to shut Orlando out, only manages to make himself more painfully aware of everything else. There’s Orlando’s lean frame against Elijah’s shorter one, Orlando’s strong thighs snug between Elijah’s legs, Orlando’s warm breath on Elijah’s lips… Orlando’s erection slowly rubbing against Elijah’s, beneath layers of tight, tight clothing. Friction, both painful and sweet.
Elijah tries—really tries—to remain unyielding, to keep from opening up to Orlando’s kiss. Lips warm and familiar, used and abused, crushing against Elijah’s own. There are words, whispered and painted on Elijah’s cheeks, as Orlando peppers his face with butterfly kisses.
“Fuck, Lij… so… good, and… never… not the same… doesn’t mean… never could…. Better with… you… mmmmm…”
Elijah’s fists are clenching and unclenching, grabbing helplessly at Orlando’s shirt. Orlando’s words are cutting through the haze of arousal, even through the shock of Orlando’s hand cupping him, fingers pressing down, warm and insistent on top of Elijah’s jeans. He whimpers.
“Orlando… no… I’m not… I’m not...”
Elijah knows, though, that it’s a lost cause. He won’t be able to resist much longer… isn’t resisting even now. He tries harder, keeps his eyes tightly shut against images of Orlando pressed close to Craig, hand brushing away an imaginary strand of Craig’s hair. Elijah’s seen it all, doesn’t want to remember. He fights back memories, moments between his lover and others, desperately tries to erase the memory of a picture found in Orlando’s wallet.
Dark curls and a smile as bright as Elijah would remember it, even a hundred years from now. Lighter strands of silk, faint traces of the wind brushing Johnny Depp’s hair in Orlando’s eyes. The laughter on Orlando’s face, shining with the mischievous happiness shared only in intimacy.
Elijah knows full well he’ll never need Orlando to confirm his doubts.
Elijah knows. Simple as that.
There’s a sudden blast of laughter and music as the door to the kitchen opens again. Billy is shrieking, Viggo shouting while trying to push past him on the way in.
“Fool of a Took!”
“Geroff, you twat!”
They both stop dead in their tracks, suddenly silent except for Dom’s “oomph” as he crashes against their backs.
Orlando stills against Elijah, effectively shields him from view, thumb furtively brushing away one rebellious tear that made it past Elijah’s lashes. He keeps his eyes closed, breathes raggedly against Orlando’s shoulder.
Elijah doesn’t know what hurts more, at this point. Doesn’t know if the pain comes from his unfulfilled arousal, or if it comes from…this. Whatever this is between him and Orlando, because he’s no longer certain. He does realize, however, what this looks like. Can picture the expressions on his friend’s faces: Viggo’s, unreadable, but his eyes intent. Billy probably looks concerned, slightly confused, even though he’s seen this scene too many times. As for Dom… Elijah knows Dom is looking pissed off, angry, disappointed.
Orlando turns slightly, doesn’t let go of Elijah but looks over his shoulder and smiles.
“You want something?”
Want, Elijah thinks. Yes, want indeed. He wants all of Orlando to himself, wants his friends to be gone, the party to be over. Wants his demons put to rest by a few words only Orlando could utter.
Wants.
But doesn’t get.
Or at least doesn’t get more than what Orlando is ready to give, doesn’t get reassurance, doesn’t get certainty.
Maybe what he does get should be enough, maybe he should learn to quell his paranoia and enjoy what he has. What he feels. Orlando’s strength, Orlando’s now protective embrace… Orlando’s patience.
Elijah takes a deep breath, raises his head and peeks at the three men standing in the doorway, waiting. Orlando’s hand is warm and steady against his neck. Dom narrows his eyes at him, and Elijah frantically searches Viggo’s face for that non-judgmental smile he knows he’ll get. The understanding deep in Viggo’s eyes helps to erase the hurt he feels every time he meets Dom’s accusing glare, watches Billy’s brow furrow with concern.
Dom is the one who finally answers Orlando’s question, one word mumbled between clenched teeth.
“Beer.”
Orlando smiles indulgently, obviously pretends he can’t hear the reproachful tone of Dom’s voice. He stretches his right arm out, never letting go of Elijah, but reaching for the fridge’s door. A gust of cool air wafts across Elijah’s burning skin. The fridge closes again and Elijah feels Orlando’s shrug under his own clutching hands.
“None left, sorry.”
Elijah remembers, then. He’s the host, this is his house. He knows where the extra beers are.
He extracts himself from Orlando’s arms. Orlando lets him go reluctantly, perfectly aware that a struggle for power now, here—when the tension and awkwardness are already so thick Elijah can taste them—wouldn’t go over well.
He pushes past his friends, mumbles something about the basement and more beer, and manages to ignore Billy’s “Wait!” He doesn’t let himself notice how Orlando looks, either, nonchalantly leaning against the counter, engaged in a glaring contest with Dom.
The basement is where Billy finds him, eventually. Minutes—or maybe hours—have passed, and Elijah is sitting on the cold floor, huddled in a corner, cheek pressed to the wall.
Billy doesn’t say much, just reaches into the old battered fridge for one of the spare bottles of beer, and then settles down next to Elijah on the floor. They remain silent for a while, taking turns at sipping the bitter drink.
Elijah isn’t crying, despite the sting he feels behind his closed eyelids. He’s never really believed in self-pity, anyway. He jumps slightly when Billy starts speaking, a little surprised when the words coming out of his friend’s mouth aren’t even questioning. He listens intently, frowns when he can’t tell whether the words are making any sense. He looks up into Billy’s eyes, finally. Reads more understanding and love in them than he’s let himself hope for.
“Shakespeare?”
Billy smiles and his eyes light up briefly. “Othello, yes.”
Elijah sighs and looks away again, biting on a non-existent thumbnail. The taste of blood is sharp and familiar in his mouth, Billy’s lilt reassuring in his ear.
“I think maybe… maybe you need help, Elijah.”
Elijah shrugs again, bites harder on his thumb, draws more blood from the self-inflicted wound. He thinks briefly of long curls and dark brown eyes, thinks of Orlando and Dom, of Orlando and Craig, Viggo, David…of Orlando and people Elijah hasn’t even met.
He thinks of himself, young and jaded, a little too involved, a little too intense.
Help, he thinks.
Turns to Billy and smiles.
“Maybe.”
THE END
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