NaNoWriMo - The Story So Far, Parts 65-68
65. Pancake
I can look your God right in the eye.
Billy/Viggo, PG, 500 words, sequel to Not the Red Baron
"Not what I expected," Billy said, exhaling a long column of smoke.
Viggo plucked the cigarette from Billy's fingers and took a drag. "What did you expect?"
The only noise was the distant hum of a car's engine revving and the gentle flutter of wings in the breeze. "I don't know," Billy answered honestly. "We've spent millennia watching them go at it, you know? They've all got their own... thing, yeah? Some of them are sweet, like those candies you get for a quarter from the machines in gas stations. Too sugary, rot your teeth out, stick to the back of your throat sweet."
Viggo shifted, rolled over to face Billy and propped his head on his hand. "And the others?" he asked carefully.
"Rutting like animals in the mud. Like they can't get enough, or like they've had too much, or both at the same time," Billy answered.
"And us?" Viggo asked. His eyes were dark in the moonlight.
"Something else," he said. "Something... other."
Viggo make a low sound in the back of his throat, something that could have been either agreement or the beginning of a growl. He took another drag from the cigarette and spoke as he exhaled. "When I was young, back before history had a name, I saw something like that. But then not like that at all. Exactly the same but completely opposite."
"That about covers it," Billy agreed.
Viggo leaned over and kissed Billy full on the mouth, sliding his tongue easily past Billy's parted lips. He tasted like smoke and sky, and Billy kissed him back hungrily, pulling Viggo's head down and crushing their mouths together until Billy's lips felt bruised and swollen. Viggo stroked a hand over Billy's back, threading his fingers between the quills of his feathers. Billy gasped against Viggo's mouth and broke away.
Viggo smiled at Billy and sat up, crossing his muscular legs beneath him. He took the last drag off of the cigarette he'd continued to hold, then flicked the butt off of the roof. It landed, unseen, on the sidewalk below, sparking and burning bright orange before it dimmed.
They didn't speak for some time, naked and shameless on top of the roof. Clouds passed over the moon, and eventually the silence made Billy oddly uncomfortable, and he cleared his throat. "Do you think..." he paused, and Viggo closed his eyes.
"Yeah," Viggo answered. "Yeah, I do."
"Well, that's just not fair," Billy protested. "I mean, we couldn't have had some warning or something?"
Viggo laughed. "What do you call the Crusades, Bill? Hiroshima? The flood? If those weren't portents..."
"Sod portents," Billy interrupted. "I don't want portents. I want him to stand in front of me and give me a damn reason. And none of this 'I-screwed-up-free-will-sucks-my-bad' bullshit, either."
"God doesn't have to look anyone in the eye, Billy," Viggo said.
Billy let his head loll back and rubbed his eye with the back of his knuckles. "Maybe that's the problem," Billy sighed.
*****
66. Pandora's Aquarium
Thoughts you thought you'd never tell.
Billy/Orlando, NC-17, 500 words
"There are too many colors, you know?" Orlando mused. "I mean, what do you need? Blue, yellow, fucking red. Maybe pink, sometimes, black, green. All the rest of it's fucking wasted, you know? Fucking, fucking, ah, aquamarine and shit. Just say goddamned blue, you know?"
Billy nodded his head and snatched the joint from Orlando. "And too many words," he agreed. "Too many colors and too many words. How many different ways do you need to say 'yellow'? Canary, lemon..." Billy raised his fingers as he ticked off the first two colors, then stumbled when he couldn't think of a third. "It's just fucking yellow," he said, giving up and throwing one hand into the air.
Orlando leaned over and snagged the spliff. "You know who uses too many words?" he asked, gesturing emphatically. "Fucking Viggo. Fucker said to me yesterday, you know what he said?" Orlando took a puff and Billy waited for him to exhale before continuing. "Fucking said Elijah's eyes were cerulean." He rolled his eyes. "Fucking cerulean."
Billy snorted. "He told me Dom's were heather."
"Who's Heather?" Orlando asked, passing the joint back to Billy.
Billy stared at him. Orlando looked back, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. He blinked owlishly, and Billy dissolved into laughter. "Heather gray, mate," he said, slinging an arm across Orlando's shoulders. Off Orlando's look, Billy explained further. "It's a shade of gray."
"Why the fuck didn't he just say gray, then?" Orlando bitched. "Thinks he's fucking Jackson Pollock, Viggo does." Again, Billy stared at him. Orlando pursed his mouth. "I'm not stupid," he said, poking his tongue out at Billy.
"Sorry, mate. Just didn't think..." he trailed off, taking the final puff and crushing the roach under the tip of his shoe.
Orlando looked at him angrily, and Billy ducked his head until Orlando dissolved into giggles. "I saw the movie, man," he says between snickers. "Viggo had a book on his fucking coffee table, said something about it, like I was supposed to know who the fuck the guy was. So I rented the goddamned movie."
Billy tightened his grip on Orlando's shoulder, pulling him closer so that he could reach over and punch him with his free hand. "Bastard." Orlando continued to giggle, and Billy dropped his arm and lay back, staring up at the sky. "World's gone all whirlypits," he said, watching the stars speed by above him. Orlando muffled his last snicker and reclined next to Billy.
"It has," he agreed. "Viggo told me your eyes were car... fuck. Cher... Fuck."
"Chartreuse?" Billy managed.
"Yes!" Orlando exclaimed. "That. That word."
Billy laughed a humorless laugh. "My eyes are fucking green," he said, suddenly adopting Orlando's penchant for profanity, "The sky is fucking black."
"Your skin is fucking white," Orlando added, turning to face Billy. Billy rolled his head over and suddenly noticed that Orlando was mere inches from his face.
"Your eyes are brown," Billy said.
"Fuckin' right," Orlando answered, leaning forward to kiss Billy's pink lips.
*****
67. Parasol
I stare at the wall, knowing on the other side the storm that waits for me.
Viggo/Dom, PG, 500 words
He's been listening to Dom bashing around the kitchen for the last fifteen minutes. He's counted four smashed glasses, what sounded like a carton of eggs hurled at the wall and two bottles of beer hastily opened by slamming their caps against the counter. The cat has been hiding under the bed for twelve of those last fifteen minutes, venturing out once when there was a lull in the noise, only to scurry back, tail high, when the smashing resumed. Drawers have been slammed, cupboards shut so forcefully that they swung back open with a bang, and Viggo thinks he actually heard Dom pull the ice tray out of the freezer and slam it onto the ground, sending ice cubes skittering across the linoleum.
The noise finally stops. Viggo stares at the wall, imagines he's watching paint dry, and patiently counts to five hundred, listening for any signal at all coming from the kitchen. It's eerily silent. The cat pokes her nose out from under the bed and snuffles at the air, then ducks back under with a small growl when Viggo tries to scratch her ears.
"I know," he sighs, standing up. He absently rubs at the top of his head and takes a deep breath, steeling himself.
The walk down to the kitchen is shorter than Viggo would have liked, and the stairs creek under his feet. When he reaches the doorway, he finds Dom, sitting quietly in the corner, sipping from an amber beer bottle. There's a small smear of blood on the thigh of his jeans, probably from the cut that Viggo sees on the palm of Dom's hand. Dom himself doesn't seem to notice it, though. He doesn't seem to notice much, including the melting puddle of ice that is coloring the hem of his jeans a darker blue.
There are tiny shards of glass scattered all over the floor, and Viggo, barefoot as usual, tiptoes carefully over them and squats next to Dom. He reaches up to the stove and pulls a towel down from where they hang on the handle and wraps it gently around Dom's palm, tying it tightly in place to stem the bleeding. Dom doesn't say anything or even look at Viggo. He just takes another pull off his beer and lets his injured hand flop uselessly in his lap.
"Dom," Viggo starts, but Dom interrupts.
"Don't," he spits quickly, not looking up. "Don't."
Viggo sighs and checks the space around him for glass shards before he sits down next to Dom and leans his head against a cabinet. He reaches out next to him and carefully plucks a small shard of glass off of the floor. He holds it between two fingers, careful not to let the jagged edge pierce his skin. With a flick of his wrist, he tips the glass back and forth, catching the reflection of the sun outside the window and casting it onto the floor.
"I am sorry," Viggo whispers.
"I know," Dom answers.
*****
68. Past the Mission
They all think they know him well.
Elijah/Orlando, PG, 500 words
Elijah is an open book. Elwood, with his big blue eyes and his heart on his sleeve, is easy enough for even Astin to read, and Astin can't read anyone.
Elijah likes Feet. Elijah might actually be the only Hobbit who likes Feet at all. There's a sliver of night just before dawn that makes Elijah feel like the world is simultaneously huge and very, very small. He loves waking up when it's still that part of night, just before dawn breaks.
Elijah likes cigarettes. It's actually more of an oral fixation than anything, the same way that gnawing on his cuticles is, but most people, no matter how they feel about smoking, will agree that they'd rather smell Elijah after half a pack than sit across from him while he chews his fingers and spits out the bits of skin he pulls away with his teeth.
Elijah likes video games, and will challenge anyone to a round of Grand Turismo or whatever game he happens to be obsessed with at the moment. He likes to win, too. Video games bring out Elwood's competitive side, and he'll sometimes stomp around the house for hours afterward if Dom beats him at his own game.
Elijah likes music. All kinds of music, really, but the more obscure and pretentious-sounding is what suits him best. They all know, though, that Elijah isn't being pretentious-- He actually likes all of that stuff, genuinely. He'll eagerly listen to it with anyone who sits in his living room for more than thirty seconds, and when Billy told him that the stuff was "shite," Elijah pouted and then called Billy's heritage into question.
Elijah likes beer, although the Fellowship doesn't tend to classify the stuff that he drinks cold from bottles as actual beer, and Elijah certainly can't have more than two. More than two beers and Elijah starts debating the existence of God and the possibilities of reincarnation with anyone within hearing distance, which is a two-block radius when Elwood drinks. Viggo made the mistake of engaging him in one of those conversations once. Elijah threw up on his shoe when Viggo insisted that "Love thy neighbor's wife" wasn't one of the tenants of Buddhism.
Elijah likes coffee, although, as with beer, he needs to be cut off after two cups. Any more than that, and he becomes monkey!Elijah, incapable of standing still. He gets jittery and jumpy and one time he even sat on Ian's lap just for a joke. The whole cast learned their lesson after that one, and sometimes Bean sneaks decaf into Elijah's cup.
Elijah likes Orlando, too. Somehow, for all of his openness, he's actually managed to keep that from everyone except Orlando himself. But Elijah's not afraid to tell Orlando what he likes: Orlando's hands, his hips, his fingers, the backs of his thighs, the crook of his elbow, the stubbly sides of his head against the insides of Elijah's thighs. Elijah likes those things better than everything else combined.
I can look your God right in the eye.
Billy/Viggo, PG, 500 words, sequel to Not the Red Baron
"Not what I expected," Billy said, exhaling a long column of smoke.
Viggo plucked the cigarette from Billy's fingers and took a drag. "What did you expect?"
The only noise was the distant hum of a car's engine revving and the gentle flutter of wings in the breeze. "I don't know," Billy answered honestly. "We've spent millennia watching them go at it, you know? They've all got their own... thing, yeah? Some of them are sweet, like those candies you get for a quarter from the machines in gas stations. Too sugary, rot your teeth out, stick to the back of your throat sweet."
Viggo shifted, rolled over to face Billy and propped his head on his hand. "And the others?" he asked carefully.
"Rutting like animals in the mud. Like they can't get enough, or like they've had too much, or both at the same time," Billy answered.
"And us?" Viggo asked. His eyes were dark in the moonlight.
"Something else," he said. "Something... other."
Viggo make a low sound in the back of his throat, something that could have been either agreement or the beginning of a growl. He took another drag from the cigarette and spoke as he exhaled. "When I was young, back before history had a name, I saw something like that. But then not like that at all. Exactly the same but completely opposite."
"That about covers it," Billy agreed.
Viggo leaned over and kissed Billy full on the mouth, sliding his tongue easily past Billy's parted lips. He tasted like smoke and sky, and Billy kissed him back hungrily, pulling Viggo's head down and crushing their mouths together until Billy's lips felt bruised and swollen. Viggo stroked a hand over Billy's back, threading his fingers between the quills of his feathers. Billy gasped against Viggo's mouth and broke away.
Viggo smiled at Billy and sat up, crossing his muscular legs beneath him. He took the last drag off of the cigarette he'd continued to hold, then flicked the butt off of the roof. It landed, unseen, on the sidewalk below, sparking and burning bright orange before it dimmed.
They didn't speak for some time, naked and shameless on top of the roof. Clouds passed over the moon, and eventually the silence made Billy oddly uncomfortable, and he cleared his throat. "Do you think..." he paused, and Viggo closed his eyes.
"Yeah," Viggo answered. "Yeah, I do."
"Well, that's just not fair," Billy protested. "I mean, we couldn't have had some warning or something?"
Viggo laughed. "What do you call the Crusades, Bill? Hiroshima? The flood? If those weren't portents..."
"Sod portents," Billy interrupted. "I don't want portents. I want him to stand in front of me and give me a damn reason. And none of this 'I-screwed-up-free-will-sucks-my-bad' bullshit, either."
"God doesn't have to look anyone in the eye, Billy," Viggo said.
Billy let his head loll back and rubbed his eye with the back of his knuckles. "Maybe that's the problem," Billy sighed.
*****
66. Pandora's Aquarium
Thoughts you thought you'd never tell.
Billy/Orlando, NC-17, 500 words
"There are too many colors, you know?" Orlando mused. "I mean, what do you need? Blue, yellow, fucking red. Maybe pink, sometimes, black, green. All the rest of it's fucking wasted, you know? Fucking, fucking, ah, aquamarine and shit. Just say goddamned blue, you know?"
Billy nodded his head and snatched the joint from Orlando. "And too many words," he agreed. "Too many colors and too many words. How many different ways do you need to say 'yellow'? Canary, lemon..." Billy raised his fingers as he ticked off the first two colors, then stumbled when he couldn't think of a third. "It's just fucking yellow," he said, giving up and throwing one hand into the air.
Orlando leaned over and snagged the spliff. "You know who uses too many words?" he asked, gesturing emphatically. "Fucking Viggo. Fucker said to me yesterday, you know what he said?" Orlando took a puff and Billy waited for him to exhale before continuing. "Fucking said Elijah's eyes were cerulean." He rolled his eyes. "Fucking cerulean."
Billy snorted. "He told me Dom's were heather."
"Who's Heather?" Orlando asked, passing the joint back to Billy.
Billy stared at him. Orlando looked back, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. He blinked owlishly, and Billy dissolved into laughter. "Heather gray, mate," he said, slinging an arm across Orlando's shoulders. Off Orlando's look, Billy explained further. "It's a shade of gray."
"Why the fuck didn't he just say gray, then?" Orlando bitched. "Thinks he's fucking Jackson Pollock, Viggo does." Again, Billy stared at him. Orlando pursed his mouth. "I'm not stupid," he said, poking his tongue out at Billy.
"Sorry, mate. Just didn't think..." he trailed off, taking the final puff and crushing the roach under the tip of his shoe.
Orlando looked at him angrily, and Billy ducked his head until Orlando dissolved into giggles. "I saw the movie, man," he says between snickers. "Viggo had a book on his fucking coffee table, said something about it, like I was supposed to know who the fuck the guy was. So I rented the goddamned movie."
Billy tightened his grip on Orlando's shoulder, pulling him closer so that he could reach over and punch him with his free hand. "Bastard." Orlando continued to giggle, and Billy dropped his arm and lay back, staring up at the sky. "World's gone all whirlypits," he said, watching the stars speed by above him. Orlando muffled his last snicker and reclined next to Billy.
"It has," he agreed. "Viggo told me your eyes were car... fuck. Cher... Fuck."
"Chartreuse?" Billy managed.
"Yes!" Orlando exclaimed. "That. That word."
Billy laughed a humorless laugh. "My eyes are fucking green," he said, suddenly adopting Orlando's penchant for profanity, "The sky is fucking black."
"Your skin is fucking white," Orlando added, turning to face Billy. Billy rolled his head over and suddenly noticed that Orlando was mere inches from his face.
"Your eyes are brown," Billy said.
"Fuckin' right," Orlando answered, leaning forward to kiss Billy's pink lips.
*****
67. Parasol
I stare at the wall, knowing on the other side the storm that waits for me.
Viggo/Dom, PG, 500 words
He's been listening to Dom bashing around the kitchen for the last fifteen minutes. He's counted four smashed glasses, what sounded like a carton of eggs hurled at the wall and two bottles of beer hastily opened by slamming their caps against the counter. The cat has been hiding under the bed for twelve of those last fifteen minutes, venturing out once when there was a lull in the noise, only to scurry back, tail high, when the smashing resumed. Drawers have been slammed, cupboards shut so forcefully that they swung back open with a bang, and Viggo thinks he actually heard Dom pull the ice tray out of the freezer and slam it onto the ground, sending ice cubes skittering across the linoleum.
The noise finally stops. Viggo stares at the wall, imagines he's watching paint dry, and patiently counts to five hundred, listening for any signal at all coming from the kitchen. It's eerily silent. The cat pokes her nose out from under the bed and snuffles at the air, then ducks back under with a small growl when Viggo tries to scratch her ears.
"I know," he sighs, standing up. He absently rubs at the top of his head and takes a deep breath, steeling himself.
The walk down to the kitchen is shorter than Viggo would have liked, and the stairs creek under his feet. When he reaches the doorway, he finds Dom, sitting quietly in the corner, sipping from an amber beer bottle. There's a small smear of blood on the thigh of his jeans, probably from the cut that Viggo sees on the palm of Dom's hand. Dom himself doesn't seem to notice it, though. He doesn't seem to notice much, including the melting puddle of ice that is coloring the hem of his jeans a darker blue.
There are tiny shards of glass scattered all over the floor, and Viggo, barefoot as usual, tiptoes carefully over them and squats next to Dom. He reaches up to the stove and pulls a towel down from where they hang on the handle and wraps it gently around Dom's palm, tying it tightly in place to stem the bleeding. Dom doesn't say anything or even look at Viggo. He just takes another pull off his beer and lets his injured hand flop uselessly in his lap.
"Dom," Viggo starts, but Dom interrupts.
"Don't," he spits quickly, not looking up. "Don't."
Viggo sighs and checks the space around him for glass shards before he sits down next to Dom and leans his head against a cabinet. He reaches out next to him and carefully plucks a small shard of glass off of the floor. He holds it between two fingers, careful not to let the jagged edge pierce his skin. With a flick of his wrist, he tips the glass back and forth, catching the reflection of the sun outside the window and casting it onto the floor.
"I am sorry," Viggo whispers.
"I know," Dom answers.
*****
68. Past the Mission
They all think they know him well.
Elijah/Orlando, PG, 500 words
Elijah is an open book. Elwood, with his big blue eyes and his heart on his sleeve, is easy enough for even Astin to read, and Astin can't read anyone.
Elijah likes Feet. Elijah might actually be the only Hobbit who likes Feet at all. There's a sliver of night just before dawn that makes Elijah feel like the world is simultaneously huge and very, very small. He loves waking up when it's still that part of night, just before dawn breaks.
Elijah likes cigarettes. It's actually more of an oral fixation than anything, the same way that gnawing on his cuticles is, but most people, no matter how they feel about smoking, will agree that they'd rather smell Elijah after half a pack than sit across from him while he chews his fingers and spits out the bits of skin he pulls away with his teeth.
Elijah likes video games, and will challenge anyone to a round of Grand Turismo or whatever game he happens to be obsessed with at the moment. He likes to win, too. Video games bring out Elwood's competitive side, and he'll sometimes stomp around the house for hours afterward if Dom beats him at his own game.
Elijah likes music. All kinds of music, really, but the more obscure and pretentious-sounding is what suits him best. They all know, though, that Elijah isn't being pretentious-- He actually likes all of that stuff, genuinely. He'll eagerly listen to it with anyone who sits in his living room for more than thirty seconds, and when Billy told him that the stuff was "shite," Elijah pouted and then called Billy's heritage into question.
Elijah likes beer, although the Fellowship doesn't tend to classify the stuff that he drinks cold from bottles as actual beer, and Elijah certainly can't have more than two. More than two beers and Elijah starts debating the existence of God and the possibilities of reincarnation with anyone within hearing distance, which is a two-block radius when Elwood drinks. Viggo made the mistake of engaging him in one of those conversations once. Elijah threw up on his shoe when Viggo insisted that "Love thy neighbor's wife" wasn't one of the tenants of Buddhism.
Elijah likes coffee, although, as with beer, he needs to be cut off after two cups. Any more than that, and he becomes monkey!Elijah, incapable of standing still. He gets jittery and jumpy and one time he even sat on Ian's lap just for a joke. The whole cast learned their lesson after that one, and sometimes Bean sneaks decaf into Elijah's cup.
Elijah likes Orlando, too. Somehow, for all of his openness, he's actually managed to keep that from everyone except Orlando himself. But Elijah's not afraid to tell Orlando what he likes: Orlando's hands, his hips, his fingers, the backs of his thighs, the crook of his elbow, the stubbly sides of his head against the insides of Elijah's thighs. Elijah likes those things better than everything else combined.