Harry Sinclair / Orlando Bloom - Chapter 1
Title: Sin's Bloom
Pairing: Harry Sinclair (written by the fabulous lunasv)/ Orlando Bloom (written by deleerium)
Type: LOTR RPS
Rating: G - this part
Summary: Harry, Orlando, rain, the beach, early morning, and first meetings.
This morning Orlando's house feels too small and too airless to contain his jumbled thoughts. It's too early to call anyone and too cold to surf and too much going on with the film and the people and the hugeness of everything that's happened in the past few months.
There's only one place he's found where this particular feeling fades. He pulls on shirt and sweater and jeans, not bothering to lock the door behind him as he lopes the half-mile downhill to the black sand beach.
The first slide of Orlando's shoe into sand calms all the restless energy and he slows down. Walks along the shoreline, letting his body gangle back and forth with the heavy breeze and looks out at the sea.
It's spring, or so the calendar says, but Harry's cold and he pulls on pea coat and toboggan before heading down to the beach. Morning walks are the best. No one else out. He can just think, compose in his head. So he's kicking at a rock that seems to have lost its way from surf to sand when he notices there's company this morning. Harry immediately places the face. It's hard not to recognize one of Peter's Rings brood, especially the young ones. But he's not inclined to chat, this one -- Orlando, he mentally notes -- one of the party set, as Harry recalls.
Orlando squints against the wind and overcast sky, alternating views between the riot of the ocean and the sand folding like wet oatmeal under his shoes. So he's startled when he looks up to find his stretch of the beach occupied.
He stops, body poised like a dog off its leash, half-curiousity, half-uncertainty. He knows that gaze. He's watched the man's steady assessment from the sidelines of filming for too many weeks. The name takes a moment to surface. Sinclair. He tilts his head, shoulders hunched with the cold. Peter and Karl's mate. Harry. He shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles in greeting, reverting to natural quietness without Elijah and the rest of the hobbits to hide among.
It's inevitable, unless Harry turns back, their paths crossing in minutes.
"Morning," Harry mutters, sociable but not gregarious. "Don't see too many of you out this early."
Orlando laughs, a bright pulse of sound quickly smothered by a shy grin. "Hobbits sleep later than elves," he murmurs quietly, then blushes, wondering if the familiar off-camera characterization sounds strange. To a virtual stranger. He points a shoulder at the ocean and takes a step past Harry, turning to keep him in sight. He stumbles back a step in the sand but doesn't fall. "It calls to me more than them."
"That's her nature," Harry murmurs, turning enough to watch Orlando move. "Beckons souls to their destruction."
Orlando sways, weight moving back and forth, brow furrowed. Beckoned by the ocean. And Harry. He stops moving, blinking as a light rain begins to fall. "And to freedom."
The drizzle splatters in the tide, and Harry's content to stand another long moment, watching ocean and Orlando. "I have hot water," he says as the drops threaten larger, "and a fresh batch of tea." It's an offer, one morning soul to another.
A fat droplet creeps to the end of Harry's coat collar and hangs. Growing larger. And larger. Orlando lifts his hand, skin mottled red from the cold and touches the bubble with the tip of a finger.
Instead of bursting, it transfers, clinging to him. He meets Harry's gaze with a dazzling grin, holding up the droplet. "I like lemon." The drop tumbles to the sand. His grin softens to a smile. "In morning tea. Plain in the afternoon." He falls into step next to Harry.
The image is caught in Harry's mind, droplet easing from wool to flesh to sand, motions fluid. "Lemon," he muses as they walk, his hand reaching in front of Orlando to point up the path. "I like a drop of honey, no matter the hour."
"Sweet." Orlando's gaze tracks both Harry's hand and the direction. He stumbles fluidly, elbows gangling above the hands shoved in his pockets. Still, he doesn't fall. He glances sideways. "Are we the only two with houses?" Every drop of rain on Harry's coat beckons.
Harry finds Orlando's phrasing awkward. The only two what? But he sloughs it off, moving more quickly up the path, wanting to be inside watching out as the rain gets worse. "I live here, all the time," he mutters.
"Oh." Orlando's cheeks brighten with more than just the cold and wind. He follows Harry up the path and onto the porch, bouncing on his toes while he waits for Harry to open the door. He rubs his lips together, staring back down at the water. "I thought you were like the rest of us, here for just the filming."
"No." Harry laughs, pulling his coat off before going inside, draping it over one of the porch's rocking chairs. "I'm native, Orlando," he continues, pushing the door open, motioning for Orlando to move in. "Bathroom's to the right off the hall. Towels in a basket. I'll get the kettle hot."
Orlando nods and ducks into the bathroom. Hanging his damp sweater over the bath, casting a brief glance at the tiny bathroom window. I'd never fit. He grins, blushes again and reaches for a towel, rubbing the worst of the rain out of his hair.
In a few minutes, he emerges wearing only his soft brown shirt and jeans, wet shoes left drying by the door. "I've hung my sweater to dry, if that's alright." He stands close enough to smell the rain and the ocean rising off their clothes and watches Harry, head tilted a fraction to the side.
"That's fine," Harry says, glancing over his shoulder. He can't help but notice the shirt's clinging to Orlando's shoulders, and the only reason he doesn't notice the chest more is because he can't get past the face. Those eyes. Chocolate pools. "Tea in a moment. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks." Orlando slips into the corner of the window seat that affords the best view of Harry moving around the kitchen, and pulls his knees into his chest. He's a little tongue tied, but surprisingly comfortable. Warmed by the feel of the house, worn smooth around the edges. And Harry. "How'd I end up here?" he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I thought you'd pass me by on the beach. Without speaking."
"I was," Harry says, getting cups from the open cupboard, "going to walk past you, but then you smiled," he sets them down and turns to the pantry, a butler's pantry off the kitchen, "and you didn't start off with that Hobbit ranting," he's talking over his shoulder as he retrieves the tin of natural cane sugar, depositing it on the counter next to the cups, leaning against the tile edge, hands stuck into his jeans pockets. "You were quiet, staring at the sea, so I took a chance."
Orlando leans against the window, legs sprawling to the side. "You were poetic." He smiles with his whole body. "So I stayed."
"I'm poetic? That's unique flattery, Orlando," Harry says, pausing. "Wait, that's not what the others call out. It's Orli, right?"
Orlando grimaces. "That's an Elijah-ism that stuck." He lifts and drops a shoulder. "Orlando's good. Or Lando, for short. And you're Harry, right?"
"Yeah, I'm Harry. Not much way to shorten it." The kettle whistles and Harry turns to make the tea. "How strong you like it?"
"Brutal." Orlando watches Harry move between stove and mugs, the careless efficiency of each motion, then the caress of the mug once the liquid is hot and dark. The skin along his back prickles and an unexpected pulse of heat makes a connection with a forgotten thought. And then words. "The Price of Milk. That was you." He leans back against the cushions, temple pressed against the window glass. "Your work."
Harry smiles, pleased by the impromptu connection Orlando makes. "Yes, that's mine," he says, passing a filled mug to Orlando, their fingers making another connection, one that brings an equally genuine smile to Harry's lips. "Work of love."
Orlando jumps a little at the unexpected electricity of the touch, his tea sloshing but not escaping the edge. He gazes at Harry from slow-blinking eyes. "Thank you." His lashes finally settling against his cheeks as he takes a careful sip. "It shows, that it's loved. My favorite kind of film, the ones that are labors of love, rather than just the next project."
"It's the only kind I do," Harry says, chuckling and cocking his head, settling back against the counter with mug in hand. "That would be why I'm not A-list and living on the beach."
Orlando nods and takes a sip of his tea, contemplating Harry from over the rim of his mug. "I didn't think I'd ever be on something as big as Rings. It's hard work." He smiles. "And definitely Peter's labor of love, even with the enormous budget."
"Yeah. Peter's love." Harry's been friends with Peter Jackson a long time, knows him like a brother. Hell, knows him better than his own brother. "You're a good choice," he murmurs between sips. "You seem to have a good handle on Legolas, the elf conceits."
"Thank you," Orlando murmurs. "But only because I don't have to open my mouth." His eyes widen and he wipes a burble of tea off his lips. "Not that I'm complaining, I'd be an absolute disaster if the elf had to talk.
Harry grins, fascinated by the dichotomy of Orlando. One moment, self-assured; the next, a boy. "The elf does talk," he says, "unless Phil's been passing me bad script pages. And I doubt you'd be a disaster at anything."
Orlando can feel the heat waffle across his cheeks at the compliment. "I've had my share of disasterous moments," he murmurs, "But thank you. And yeah, he does talk. Though he's kind of a chorus, isn't he?" Orlando sweeps an invisible fall of blonde hair over one shoulder. "It is not the eastern shore that worries me," he mocks in Legolas' crisp monotone, then relaxes back into the window seat. "Like an insider with the audience, dropping clues every now and again."
"Exactly. You're the linchpin of a universe." Harry takes a long drink of his coffee, nearly draining the mug, and sets his mug down. "Rain sounds like it's picking up, so unless you feel like racing it, you're stuck here a while. You want the tour? There's not much. "
"Yeah." Orlando sets down his half-empty mug and unfolds himself from the window seat with a stretch, glad the rain has given him the excuse to stay. He sends a silent prayer to the weather gods for a monsoon and smiles at the thought. "I like what I've seen so far. If the rest is as welcoming as this you might find me difficult to get rid of."
"I think you'd be welcome anytime," Harry says, moving across the kitchen into the living area and veering toward the hall. "Two ways to go." He nods and points one way, "Library at the front," then the other, "bedroom at the back. Preference?"
Following, Orlando stands close enough to Harry that he has to tilt his head back slightly to meet his gaze. "Library," he answers softly. "First."
Harry smiles, Orlando's choice delighting him. "Library," he echoes, heading left toward the large room at the house's front, windows looking out over the wrapping porch onto a vacant lot and the beach beyond. "The house was my father's, most of the books his." The room's filled floor to ceiling with shelves, each one crammed with texts, most of those hardbound and some looking as if they belonged in the libraries of Rivendell.
Orlando's fingers hover over the first few yards of books as he moves down the wall. Then he's touching them, delicately committing the leather and vinyl and paper and cardboard bumps into tactile memory. He stops and slides a red leather volume out a few inches - smells the tops of the pages, then carefully returns it to its place. "This. Is amazing."
"Dad was into history, poetry. He instilled the love in me and my brother." Harry walks around the room, taking in Orlando's choices. "Do you read?"
It's a few seconds before Orlando responds. "Yeah." He caresses a maroon and gold spine with his fingertips then abruptly shoves his hands into his pockets. "Sometimes."
"And sometimes not," Harry says, stepping over and leaning against the picture window's ledge. "You don't like it?"
"No, I love books. It's just..." Orlando can feel the heat washing over his cheeks, chin tilting up in a familiar gesture of defense. "It's slow going for me." And way too slow for others. He glances at Harry, then blurts, "I'm dyslexic."
The revelation startles Harry. The boy's not so perfect. And intrigues him, in a way he can't quite comprehend. "Reading's painful, then. Do you manage well enough with scripts?"
"Mostly." Orlando shrugs both shoulders. "I color code my lines with highlighters. Or I try to get someone to read them to me. I'm usually good after I hear it a couple of times." His smile is shy. "Script changes are a nightmare, though. And there's no shortage of those around here."
Harry chuckles. "Peter loves those. Too much the perfectionist, always changing, trying to better it." He watches Orlando, entranced by the shy smile. Why is he affecting you? "You need help with those, I'm usually hanging around the set," he says, surprising himself at the offer.
"Really? That'd be brilliant. The hobbits don't. I mean, I haven't...they don't know." Orlando stumbles. "How much it helps to hear them." He rubs at the dark ruff of hair on his skull, his smile lingering as he gazes at Harry. "If it's too much bother, I can manage." Surprised by how ridiculously pleased he is at the idea of Harry helping him with lines. Even more pleased at the idea of spending more time with him. He drops his hand, walking across to the window to hide his blush. "It's still coming down out there."
"Look of the sky, it's going to be a while," Harry says, turning and heading toward the library door. "Time to see the main living area."
He moves down the hallway to the master bathroom, a large, open room with almost as many bookshelves, one nestled with an elaborate stereo system and television, the bed high and four-poster, an obvious antique, a wardrobe in one corner and French doors opening to the front wraparound porch.
Orlando's drawn to the warm wood of the bed, anchoring himself in the center of the room, one arm wrapped around a post, fingers absently tracing the deep carving as he looks around. "Your lair," he murmurs, his gaze drifting to the doors. "With a view." He glances at Harry. "Or more a way out?"
Harry looks at Orlando, smiles, walks to the bed and settles himself against the other side of the post. "Never thought of it that way. Usually it's just me here," he says, admitting a lot in a few words about his personal life. "But the view's great. Sun comes up over the water and you can see it from the bed."
At this proximity, Orlando has to look up to see Harry's profile. Usually just me. He touches Harry's cheek briefly with the tips of his fingers. An instinctive offering of touch. Contact. His hand returns to the carvings, his gaze following Harry's out over the water. "It's beautiful. The whole thing."
"Yes, it is," Harry murmurs, meaning a dozen things at once. He touches Orlando's hand, pulling it from the carvings, rubbing his thumb under the pads. "Callused. You're taking your archery lessons seriously." It's a touch, reaching out, Harry extending himself beyond his instincts to stay alone. "It'll show in the film, make a difference."
Orlando swallows and stares at Harry's fingers tracing his palm. "I like that. It," he hastens, even as his hand flexes under Harry's touch. "The lessons. Archery lessons." He gives up with a laugh, soft and self-deprecating. "I sound like such a git." And looks up at Harry. "I love the archery because it is the character. Legolas is his bow."
Harry laughs, the soft chuckle coming easily in Orlando's presence. "You're not a git. You're passionate about your craft. Unusual for one so young," he says, slowly pulling his hand away from Orlando's fingers, half-turning to look through the door's glass panes. "I don't think the rain's going to let up for hours. Do hope there's not flooding."
Orlando flips through a long list of innane comments and settles on settling in. He sits on the edge of the bed, feet dangling to the floor. "Do you think a flood would make Peter give us the day off tomorrow?"
"He might." Harry leans against the window, knowing better than to cross the few steps to the bed, sit down beside Orlando. "If you're not above blackmail, I know where Jacko's buried the bodies. We could get you a few days off," he says, grinning. "One or two secrets might get you a whole week."
"I'm not that greedy." Orlando grins back. "Yet. But ask me again when we're doing Helm's Deep. Have you seen that schedule?" He holds his arms out stiffly in front of him. "Half of us'll be zombies."
"Sexy, blond elven zombies." Harry reaches out, takes Orlando's hands and pulls him from the bed. "Sounds like a blockbuster of a film."
Unconsciously, Orlando follows the momentum of Harry's tug right into his chest. Cheek tucked against his shoulder and fingers tangled together. Compelled by the unfamiliar connection. "It's an adventure." He leans away and lets his hands drop, blinking slowly. "And all the sexy's in the wigs." His smile flashes brightly. "And the tights."
"Not all the sexy," Harry mutters. This isn't right. You don't need the complications. "A lot of it's in the way the character's played, eyes and face."
Orlando tilts his head, contemplating. Searching for a meaningful, witty response. Without making a complete arse out of himself. Do you have any idea what you're doing? "Thank you," he finally murmurs, his eyes dark as he stares at Harry. Not a bloody clue. But he makes me want to find out.
Continue to Chapter 2
Pairing: Harry Sinclair (written by the fabulous lunasv)/ Orlando Bloom (written by deleerium)
Type: LOTR RPS
Rating: G - this part
Summary: Harry, Orlando, rain, the beach, early morning, and first meetings.
This morning Orlando's house feels too small and too airless to contain his jumbled thoughts. It's too early to call anyone and too cold to surf and too much going on with the film and the people and the hugeness of everything that's happened in the past few months.
There's only one place he's found where this particular feeling fades. He pulls on shirt and sweater and jeans, not bothering to lock the door behind him as he lopes the half-mile downhill to the black sand beach.
The first slide of Orlando's shoe into sand calms all the restless energy and he slows down. Walks along the shoreline, letting his body gangle back and forth with the heavy breeze and looks out at the sea.
It's spring, or so the calendar says, but Harry's cold and he pulls on pea coat and toboggan before heading down to the beach. Morning walks are the best. No one else out. He can just think, compose in his head. So he's kicking at a rock that seems to have lost its way from surf to sand when he notices there's company this morning. Harry immediately places the face. It's hard not to recognize one of Peter's Rings brood, especially the young ones. But he's not inclined to chat, this one -- Orlando, he mentally notes -- one of the party set, as Harry recalls.
Orlando squints against the wind and overcast sky, alternating views between the riot of the ocean and the sand folding like wet oatmeal under his shoes. So he's startled when he looks up to find his stretch of the beach occupied.
He stops, body poised like a dog off its leash, half-curiousity, half-uncertainty. He knows that gaze. He's watched the man's steady assessment from the sidelines of filming for too many weeks. The name takes a moment to surface. Sinclair. He tilts his head, shoulders hunched with the cold. Peter and Karl's mate. Harry. He shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles in greeting, reverting to natural quietness without Elijah and the rest of the hobbits to hide among.
It's inevitable, unless Harry turns back, their paths crossing in minutes.
"Morning," Harry mutters, sociable but not gregarious. "Don't see too many of you out this early."
Orlando laughs, a bright pulse of sound quickly smothered by a shy grin. "Hobbits sleep later than elves," he murmurs quietly, then blushes, wondering if the familiar off-camera characterization sounds strange. To a virtual stranger. He points a shoulder at the ocean and takes a step past Harry, turning to keep him in sight. He stumbles back a step in the sand but doesn't fall. "It calls to me more than them."
"That's her nature," Harry murmurs, turning enough to watch Orlando move. "Beckons souls to their destruction."
Orlando sways, weight moving back and forth, brow furrowed. Beckoned by the ocean. And Harry. He stops moving, blinking as a light rain begins to fall. "And to freedom."
The drizzle splatters in the tide, and Harry's content to stand another long moment, watching ocean and Orlando. "I have hot water," he says as the drops threaten larger, "and a fresh batch of tea." It's an offer, one morning soul to another.
A fat droplet creeps to the end of Harry's coat collar and hangs. Growing larger. And larger. Orlando lifts his hand, skin mottled red from the cold and touches the bubble with the tip of a finger.
Instead of bursting, it transfers, clinging to him. He meets Harry's gaze with a dazzling grin, holding up the droplet. "I like lemon." The drop tumbles to the sand. His grin softens to a smile. "In morning tea. Plain in the afternoon." He falls into step next to Harry.
The image is caught in Harry's mind, droplet easing from wool to flesh to sand, motions fluid. "Lemon," he muses as they walk, his hand reaching in front of Orlando to point up the path. "I like a drop of honey, no matter the hour."
"Sweet." Orlando's gaze tracks both Harry's hand and the direction. He stumbles fluidly, elbows gangling above the hands shoved in his pockets. Still, he doesn't fall. He glances sideways. "Are we the only two with houses?" Every drop of rain on Harry's coat beckons.
Harry finds Orlando's phrasing awkward. The only two what? But he sloughs it off, moving more quickly up the path, wanting to be inside watching out as the rain gets worse. "I live here, all the time," he mutters.
"Oh." Orlando's cheeks brighten with more than just the cold and wind. He follows Harry up the path and onto the porch, bouncing on his toes while he waits for Harry to open the door. He rubs his lips together, staring back down at the water. "I thought you were like the rest of us, here for just the filming."
"No." Harry laughs, pulling his coat off before going inside, draping it over one of the porch's rocking chairs. "I'm native, Orlando," he continues, pushing the door open, motioning for Orlando to move in. "Bathroom's to the right off the hall. Towels in a basket. I'll get the kettle hot."
Orlando nods and ducks into the bathroom. Hanging his damp sweater over the bath, casting a brief glance at the tiny bathroom window. I'd never fit. He grins, blushes again and reaches for a towel, rubbing the worst of the rain out of his hair.
In a few minutes, he emerges wearing only his soft brown shirt and jeans, wet shoes left drying by the door. "I've hung my sweater to dry, if that's alright." He stands close enough to smell the rain and the ocean rising off their clothes and watches Harry, head tilted a fraction to the side.
"That's fine," Harry says, glancing over his shoulder. He can't help but notice the shirt's clinging to Orlando's shoulders, and the only reason he doesn't notice the chest more is because he can't get past the face. Those eyes. Chocolate pools. "Tea in a moment. Make yourself comfortable."
"Thanks." Orlando slips into the corner of the window seat that affords the best view of Harry moving around the kitchen, and pulls his knees into his chest. He's a little tongue tied, but surprisingly comfortable. Warmed by the feel of the house, worn smooth around the edges. And Harry. "How'd I end up here?" he murmurs, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I thought you'd pass me by on the beach. Without speaking."
"I was," Harry says, getting cups from the open cupboard, "going to walk past you, but then you smiled," he sets them down and turns to the pantry, a butler's pantry off the kitchen, "and you didn't start off with that Hobbit ranting," he's talking over his shoulder as he retrieves the tin of natural cane sugar, depositing it on the counter next to the cups, leaning against the tile edge, hands stuck into his jeans pockets. "You were quiet, staring at the sea, so I took a chance."
Orlando leans against the window, legs sprawling to the side. "You were poetic." He smiles with his whole body. "So I stayed."
"I'm poetic? That's unique flattery, Orlando," Harry says, pausing. "Wait, that's not what the others call out. It's Orli, right?"
Orlando grimaces. "That's an Elijah-ism that stuck." He lifts and drops a shoulder. "Orlando's good. Or Lando, for short. And you're Harry, right?"
"Yeah, I'm Harry. Not much way to shorten it." The kettle whistles and Harry turns to make the tea. "How strong you like it?"
"Brutal." Orlando watches Harry move between stove and mugs, the careless efficiency of each motion, then the caress of the mug once the liquid is hot and dark. The skin along his back prickles and an unexpected pulse of heat makes a connection with a forgotten thought. And then words. "The Price of Milk. That was you." He leans back against the cushions, temple pressed against the window glass. "Your work."
Harry smiles, pleased by the impromptu connection Orlando makes. "Yes, that's mine," he says, passing a filled mug to Orlando, their fingers making another connection, one that brings an equally genuine smile to Harry's lips. "Work of love."
Orlando jumps a little at the unexpected electricity of the touch, his tea sloshing but not escaping the edge. He gazes at Harry from slow-blinking eyes. "Thank you." His lashes finally settling against his cheeks as he takes a careful sip. "It shows, that it's loved. My favorite kind of film, the ones that are labors of love, rather than just the next project."
"It's the only kind I do," Harry says, chuckling and cocking his head, settling back against the counter with mug in hand. "That would be why I'm not A-list and living on the beach."
Orlando nods and takes a sip of his tea, contemplating Harry from over the rim of his mug. "I didn't think I'd ever be on something as big as Rings. It's hard work." He smiles. "And definitely Peter's labor of love, even with the enormous budget."
"Yeah. Peter's love." Harry's been friends with Peter Jackson a long time, knows him like a brother. Hell, knows him better than his own brother. "You're a good choice," he murmurs between sips. "You seem to have a good handle on Legolas, the elf conceits."
"Thank you," Orlando murmurs. "But only because I don't have to open my mouth." His eyes widen and he wipes a burble of tea off his lips. "Not that I'm complaining, I'd be an absolute disaster if the elf had to talk.
Harry grins, fascinated by the dichotomy of Orlando. One moment, self-assured; the next, a boy. "The elf does talk," he says, "unless Phil's been passing me bad script pages. And I doubt you'd be a disaster at anything."
Orlando can feel the heat waffle across his cheeks at the compliment. "I've had my share of disasterous moments," he murmurs, "But thank you. And yeah, he does talk. Though he's kind of a chorus, isn't he?" Orlando sweeps an invisible fall of blonde hair over one shoulder. "It is not the eastern shore that worries me," he mocks in Legolas' crisp monotone, then relaxes back into the window seat. "Like an insider with the audience, dropping clues every now and again."
"Exactly. You're the linchpin of a universe." Harry takes a long drink of his coffee, nearly draining the mug, and sets his mug down. "Rain sounds like it's picking up, so unless you feel like racing it, you're stuck here a while. You want the tour? There's not much. "
"Yeah." Orlando sets down his half-empty mug and unfolds himself from the window seat with a stretch, glad the rain has given him the excuse to stay. He sends a silent prayer to the weather gods for a monsoon and smiles at the thought. "I like what I've seen so far. If the rest is as welcoming as this you might find me difficult to get rid of."
"I think you'd be welcome anytime," Harry says, moving across the kitchen into the living area and veering toward the hall. "Two ways to go." He nods and points one way, "Library at the front," then the other, "bedroom at the back. Preference?"
Following, Orlando stands close enough to Harry that he has to tilt his head back slightly to meet his gaze. "Library," he answers softly. "First."
Harry smiles, Orlando's choice delighting him. "Library," he echoes, heading left toward the large room at the house's front, windows looking out over the wrapping porch onto a vacant lot and the beach beyond. "The house was my father's, most of the books his." The room's filled floor to ceiling with shelves, each one crammed with texts, most of those hardbound and some looking as if they belonged in the libraries of Rivendell.
Orlando's fingers hover over the first few yards of books as he moves down the wall. Then he's touching them, delicately committing the leather and vinyl and paper and cardboard bumps into tactile memory. He stops and slides a red leather volume out a few inches - smells the tops of the pages, then carefully returns it to its place. "This. Is amazing."
"Dad was into history, poetry. He instilled the love in me and my brother." Harry walks around the room, taking in Orlando's choices. "Do you read?"
It's a few seconds before Orlando responds. "Yeah." He caresses a maroon and gold spine with his fingertips then abruptly shoves his hands into his pockets. "Sometimes."
"And sometimes not," Harry says, stepping over and leaning against the picture window's ledge. "You don't like it?"
"No, I love books. It's just..." Orlando can feel the heat washing over his cheeks, chin tilting up in a familiar gesture of defense. "It's slow going for me." And way too slow for others. He glances at Harry, then blurts, "I'm dyslexic."
The revelation startles Harry. The boy's not so perfect. And intrigues him, in a way he can't quite comprehend. "Reading's painful, then. Do you manage well enough with scripts?"
"Mostly." Orlando shrugs both shoulders. "I color code my lines with highlighters. Or I try to get someone to read them to me. I'm usually good after I hear it a couple of times." His smile is shy. "Script changes are a nightmare, though. And there's no shortage of those around here."
Harry chuckles. "Peter loves those. Too much the perfectionist, always changing, trying to better it." He watches Orlando, entranced by the shy smile. Why is he affecting you? "You need help with those, I'm usually hanging around the set," he says, surprising himself at the offer.
"Really? That'd be brilliant. The hobbits don't. I mean, I haven't...they don't know." Orlando stumbles. "How much it helps to hear them." He rubs at the dark ruff of hair on his skull, his smile lingering as he gazes at Harry. "If it's too much bother, I can manage." Surprised by how ridiculously pleased he is at the idea of Harry helping him with lines. Even more pleased at the idea of spending more time with him. He drops his hand, walking across to the window to hide his blush. "It's still coming down out there."
"Look of the sky, it's going to be a while," Harry says, turning and heading toward the library door. "Time to see the main living area."
He moves down the hallway to the master bathroom, a large, open room with almost as many bookshelves, one nestled with an elaborate stereo system and television, the bed high and four-poster, an obvious antique, a wardrobe in one corner and French doors opening to the front wraparound porch.
Orlando's drawn to the warm wood of the bed, anchoring himself in the center of the room, one arm wrapped around a post, fingers absently tracing the deep carving as he looks around. "Your lair," he murmurs, his gaze drifting to the doors. "With a view." He glances at Harry. "Or more a way out?"
Harry looks at Orlando, smiles, walks to the bed and settles himself against the other side of the post. "Never thought of it that way. Usually it's just me here," he says, admitting a lot in a few words about his personal life. "But the view's great. Sun comes up over the water and you can see it from the bed."
At this proximity, Orlando has to look up to see Harry's profile. Usually just me. He touches Harry's cheek briefly with the tips of his fingers. An instinctive offering of touch. Contact. His hand returns to the carvings, his gaze following Harry's out over the water. "It's beautiful. The whole thing."
"Yes, it is," Harry murmurs, meaning a dozen things at once. He touches Orlando's hand, pulling it from the carvings, rubbing his thumb under the pads. "Callused. You're taking your archery lessons seriously." It's a touch, reaching out, Harry extending himself beyond his instincts to stay alone. "It'll show in the film, make a difference."
Orlando swallows and stares at Harry's fingers tracing his palm. "I like that. It," he hastens, even as his hand flexes under Harry's touch. "The lessons. Archery lessons." He gives up with a laugh, soft and self-deprecating. "I sound like such a git." And looks up at Harry. "I love the archery because it is the character. Legolas is his bow."
Harry laughs, the soft chuckle coming easily in Orlando's presence. "You're not a git. You're passionate about your craft. Unusual for one so young," he says, slowly pulling his hand away from Orlando's fingers, half-turning to look through the door's glass panes. "I don't think the rain's going to let up for hours. Do hope there's not flooding."
Orlando flips through a long list of innane comments and settles on settling in. He sits on the edge of the bed, feet dangling to the floor. "Do you think a flood would make Peter give us the day off tomorrow?"
"He might." Harry leans against the window, knowing better than to cross the few steps to the bed, sit down beside Orlando. "If you're not above blackmail, I know where Jacko's buried the bodies. We could get you a few days off," he says, grinning. "One or two secrets might get you a whole week."
"I'm not that greedy." Orlando grins back. "Yet. But ask me again when we're doing Helm's Deep. Have you seen that schedule?" He holds his arms out stiffly in front of him. "Half of us'll be zombies."
"Sexy, blond elven zombies." Harry reaches out, takes Orlando's hands and pulls him from the bed. "Sounds like a blockbuster of a film."
Unconsciously, Orlando follows the momentum of Harry's tug right into his chest. Cheek tucked against his shoulder and fingers tangled together. Compelled by the unfamiliar connection. "It's an adventure." He leans away and lets his hands drop, blinking slowly. "And all the sexy's in the wigs." His smile flashes brightly. "And the tights."
"Not all the sexy," Harry mutters. This isn't right. You don't need the complications. "A lot of it's in the way the character's played, eyes and face."
Orlando tilts his head, contemplating. Searching for a meaningful, witty response. Without making a complete arse out of himself. Do you have any idea what you're doing? "Thank you," he finally murmurs, his eyes dark as he stares at Harry. Not a bloody clue. But he makes me want to find out.
Continue to Chapter 2