Elijah sat on Orlando's couch, drawing his knees up to his small frame. His huge, limpid eyes glistened with burgeoning tears.
"What the cunt does 'limpid' mean, anyway?" he muttered.
Orlando cocked an eyebrow at him.
"I just heard someone say my cunting eyes are limpid."
"You're starting to worry me, mate. You're hearing things. Not only that, but your eyes are glistening with burgeoning tears. What on earth is wrong with you lately?"
Elijah regarded the apparition of male beauty next to him. The creamy, olive, almost guacamole-ean skin. God, he could dip a chip in that skin and eat it! The angled cheekbones. The chocolatey, tousled hair, which complemented his skin, even though chocolate and guacamole usually really suck together.
The penetrating yet warm, limpid brown eyes...
"There's that CUNTING word again!" Elijah blurted.
Orlando's lashes fluttered in lovely confusion. "What the fuck are you on about? I've had just about enough of this!"
The two sat silently, pouting, as the strains of Edie Brickell filled the living room.
"What I am is what I am is what I am. Are you what you are or what you are or what you are or what?"
Finally, pushed to the brink, Elijah exploded. "Will you get this fucking CRAP off?? You really need some new CDs, you know that??" He leapt off the couch toward the CD rack on the wall. Although there were slots for 90 CDs, only two were occupied.
"I mean, look at this. What is up with you? You're a rich movie star now, and you STILL own only these two crappy, pathetic CDs: Edie Brickell and 'Thriller.' HELLO?? Weren't you like, five years old when this came out??" Elijah held up the battered, well-worn copy of 'Thriller.' "For God's sake, join Columbia House!"
Orlando pursed his already sensual, pouting lips as burgeoning tears glistened in his eyes. "That's not fair, Lijy. Just the other day I—I bought the new Creed album," he stammered.
"Fourth-rate Pearl Jam!" Elijah shouted.
The two stared at each others' limpid, burgeoning eyes until Elijah's gaze moved hungrily over Orlando's skin once more. He felt himself falling, falling endlessly into a creamy vat of guacamole...
"Yum," he murmured, moving closer to Orlando, as though in a trance. "Yum," he repeated, putting his small, hobbit-y hands on Orlando's waist.
Orlando cupped Elijah's chin in his hand and tilted it up, forcing him to meet his gaze.
"You didn't need to do that," Elijah breathed huskily. "I was already looking at you."
"I know," said Orlando. "It's just something we all seem to do." They continued gazing into each other's deep, beautiful, limpid eyes. Finally, Orlando spoke once more. "You know, you never told me what was wrong."
Elijah sighed and leaned his head against Orli's chest. "It's just... .not fair. Why is your name always first? I've been a star way, way longer than you. But it's always 'Orlijah, Orlijah, Orlijah." A single tear slid down his cherubic cheek.
Orlando brushed the tear away and tilted Elijah's chin up to meet his eyes.
"Stop doing that! I'm ALREADY looking at you!"
"Oh, sorry. That you are. But Lij, 'Orlijah' has such a nice flow. It just sounds better, love. And anyway, what would you suggest?"
Elijah had the 'determined hobbit' look that Orlando had grown to dread. It was the expression of a tiny, yet plucky woodland creature who would stomp his disproportionately large, hairy foot and demand exactly what he wanted, at any cost. "I think it should be 'Elijahando,'" he said firmly.
Orli burst out laughing. "Elija-hando'! That sounds... vile. It sounds like some kind of... " He paused, frowning in distaste. "... Masturbatory skin cream or something."
High color rose in Elijah's cheeks, flushing them crimson. "Damn you! Damn you to hell, Orlando Bloom!!" His eyes burned with indignation like two, huge, swollen, protruding, fiery orbs. "You're such a CUNTING arrogant CUNT!!" he spat. "You're such a cunting cunt cunt!! And you know what else??" Elijah was practically hyperventilating.
"Er... no?" Orlando offered. "I'll tell you what else... I HATE English people! English people suck!! I spit on English people! You all think you're such hot CUNTING shit! Soooooo smart. Sooooo above it all. Sooooo la-de-dah. Well, you're not better than me!"
Orlando looked at him, bemused. "Er... .I never said I was better than you, Elijah. I merely pointed out that 'Orlijah' flows better."
"Oh, flow THIS, you limey bastard!" Elijah shouted, giving him the finger. Then he crashed to the floor in a miserable little heap. "Oh, boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!! Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo!" He sobbed pathetically. "If 'Elijahando' is wrong, then I don't want to be right! Boo-hoo-hoo!"
Orlando, ignoring the obvious paraphrasing of a hideous 80's love song that would now be stuck in readers' heads forevermore, sank to his knees next to the sobbing boy and touched his shoulder. "Lijy," he said gently, "Why are you crying like that?"
'Boo-hoo-hoo... 'cause... 'cause... that's the way I c-c-c-cry. BOO-HOO!"
"Lij, only cartoon characters cry like that," Orli explained patiently. "Nobody actually goes 'boo-hoo' when they cry."
"Well <em>I</em> do. Boo-hoo-hoo! This is how I cry. Just c-c-c-cause you're English and you don't have any f-feelings," he stammered. "Boo! Hoo!"
Orlando's lips held the trace of a grin. "No feelings, eh?"
"That's right! Boo-hoo-hoo-hoo!"
"You think I have no feelings, then?" Orlando repeated. "You think that because I'm not an overemotional, petulant American twat, that I don't have feelings?"
"You d-d-don't!" Elijah insisted, petulantly and over-emotionally. "You're like robots! Only cold, mean English people use words like pe-pe-petulant," he sniffed.
"Well, then, I guess I'll have to demonstrate to you that I indeed have feelings."
Elijah stared at him, lips quivering, eyes impossibly huge. Vast, moist, watery, limpid pools of blue, like massive blobs of cerulean blue paint sitting wetly on a palette of pristine innocence. It was the face of the purest woodland creature, just waiting to be corrupted.
Orlando growled, a low rumble of lust that began deep in his chest and emerged from his throat like the sound of a randy lion. "Roooooooowwwrrr." He scooped Elijah up effortlessly in his arms.
"Put me down, you cunting English cunt!" Elijah flailed his small limbs, but to no avail. He was no match for Orli's sword-fighting honed strength. It was the strength of a big, mean, English cunt with one thing on his mind: getting a piece of whiny, American ass.
Orlando carried Elijah into the bedroom and dumped the squirming hobbit on the bed. Straddling him, the star of the British TV series The Misomer Murders pinned him between his sinewy, sword-fighting-hardened thighs and leaned over. "Elijah," he whispered roughly in his ear. "Do you have any English in you?"
Elijah gaped at him, wide-eyed. "Um... ... no... ?"
"Would you <em>like</em> some English in you?"
"Guh... " Elijah groaned. His eyes fluttered back in his head and his lips parted. He reached a hand absently to his neck, grasping for the chain... on the edge... on the edge of a Frodogasm...
"You don't need to fondle that cunting ring anymore to get off," Orli sneered. "I'M going to get you off. And I'm going to get off getting you off. So get that ring off!"
"... Huh..?" Elijah squinted, erotic reverie momentarily interrupted.
"OK. I'll rephrase. Elijah, I'm going to fuck you senseless. I'm going to fuck you into a gelatinous blob. I'm going to ram you like the wanton, slutty woodland creature you are. And you're gonna beg and plead to be crammed by my big, pointy elven cock." Fixing a predatory smirk on his flawless face, Orlando trumpeted, "Prepare for the British Invasion!"
"Ohhhhhhh, Orrrliiii," Elijah gasped. "Invade me. Take me. Plant the Union Jack in my ass..."
"Oh, I'm going to, mate. But wait a sec... " Orlando reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small, square item.
"... The fuck are you doing...?" Elijah breathed impatiently. "Fuck me already, you cunt."
Orlando smiled and presented him with the small paper square. It had a number on it. "This is the claim ticket right here. For your lips."
With that, he bruisingly claimed Elijah's mouth. And claimed it. And re-claimed it. And in case there was any confusion, re-re-claimed it. Orlando's lips were like Vikings, raping and pillaging Elijah's mouth. If Elijah's mouth had been a village, women and children and even farm animals would be running screaming from it. He moaned deep in his throat, under the terrible yet beautiful assault.
But something... something was intruding on the periphery of his mind...
"Orli...? Elijah managed to gasp between onslaughts. "Orli... you taste like Bonne Bell Lipsmacker. Root beer flavor. My sister uses it."
A deep flush crept to Orlando's cheeks. The color of pimento. Pimento mixed with guacamole. Which actually wouldn't be that bad together. Better than chocolate and guacamole, anyway. Heck, a LOT better! I think we can rest assured on this point.
"I-I-I don't know what you mean," Orli blinked his silky black lashes. "I just taste like this naturally."
"Oh," Elijah sighed happily. "You may continue."
Orlando was about to present his claim ticket yet again, but something was intruding on the periphery of his mind. How the hell did Elijah know what Bonne Bell root beer flavored Lipsmacker tasted like?? Especially if it was his SISTER who used it? Worse, would he find Orli's own tube that he kept in the bathroom? How long could he continue the charade that he tasted like this "naturally"? And was the root beer flavor too faggy? It must be if Lij's <em>sister</em> used it... perhaps he should consider a more manly flavor, but what?? Well, it wouldn't be pina colada, that's for sure... he had definitely ruled that one out...
"Come ON!" Elijah startled him out of his lip-balm angst.
"Yes, yes," Orli said hastily. "Back to the business at hand." Once again he presented the ticket. "May I claim your lips again?"
Elijah closed his eyes, prepared his mouth to be plundered and looted yet again, when suddenly there was a loud THUD.
The former RADA student and the former child actor who had starred in Flipper looked up, startled. The sound had seemed to come from the closet. But how? Why? What? Whom? Where?? In the closet, dammit!
Orlando crept from the bed and made his way hesitantly to the closet. He was a little scared. What was in there? And had it tipped over that box filled with Bonne Bell Lipsmackers? Sweat formed on the Black Hawk Down star's upper lip. Sweat mixed with guacamole. And a little pimento too. Not pretty. Not pretty at all. But at least there wasn't any chocolate mixed with it. Because as we know by now, chocolate and guacamole just don't mix.
Elijah watched him, wide-eyed. Well, he was always wide-eyed. But he was wider-eyed than usual.
Trembling, Orli reached a hand to the closet door. It was now quiet. Terrifyingly quiet. Summoning his courage, the Wilde bit-part actor yanked the door open, panting, his breath coming quickly. Hence the word, "panting."
The first thing he saw was an incongruously placed folding chair, which was tipped over. Wait a minute: Actually, the first thing he saw was a closet packed full of the most outlandish, bilious clothes, each color and pattern more horrific than the last. Hideous stripes, checks and ruffles all vied for attention. The garish assortment went on and on. There seemed no end to the puces and chartreuses. Every sad fashion failure could be found in this closet, the whole range. From simple faux pas to out and out monstrosity. And though the sight could turn the strongest stomach, it barely registered with Orlando. He was used to it, demonstrating the astonishing human capacity to grow accustomed to even the worst horrors.
His eyes traveled from the folding chair to a scattered array of papers and envelopes, some addressed, some not. And stamps, and different colored pens. And post-it notes, in various colors. What the hell? There was a human sitting there, looking like he had just fallen out of the folding chair and onto his arse. It was Hidalgo star and former Vanity Fair subject Viggo Mortensen!
"Viggo! What in fuck's name... ?" Orli stared at the man, massively confused. Try as he might, he could not process this whole strange spectacle. And something was intruding on the periphery of his mind: What the hell was Viggo doing in his closet, surrounded by stationery products? And had he seen the box with the Bonne Bell Lipsmackers?
Viggo looked up at him fearfully, with big, limpid blue eyes.
"Strange... there's that word again," Elijah thought. He had crawled under the covers and pulled them up so just his eyes were showing. He had never been the bravest sandwich at the picnic.
"Um... don't hit me?" Viggo pleaded. There were post-it notes stuck to him, even a pink one in his hair. Looking closer, Orlando could see some gold glitter, and even some adhesive stars in rainbow colors, stuck to his face, and arms and hands. And hair. He was gripping a fluorescent yellow highlighter pen.
"Viggo... " Orlando started, but he was simply at a loss for words. Elijah had finally scrambled out of bed and peeked out from behind his shoulder.
"Hey Vig!" he piped up. "How come you have stars and glitter and post-it notes stuck to you? Is this like an arty new look you're trying out?"
"I was um... writing thank-you notes," said the early-in-his-career star of Witness. He clawed at his hair and rubbed his face, trying to remove the offending sticky products and retain at least a semblance of dignity. He failed miserably on both counts. "Uh, see. I wanted to write thank-you notes to all the authors of all the stories that have me in them."
"That's a fuck of a lot of thank-you notes, mate," Orli snorted. "You'd need to hire a whole cunting staff of thousands. And what is it with you and thank-you notes anyway? You seem to have a downright fetish for them."
Viggo stood up and brushed off his clothes, sending glitter and stars and post-its wafting into the air. His shirt, an unflattering thrift-store find that looked like something someone's dad would wear, was buttoned all wrong. His jeans, not surprisingly, had holes at the knees... and it looked like he had written things on them with a Bic pen. Bits of poetry, grocery lists, song titles. His feet were bare, except for the odd brightly colored paste-it star here and there. How the hell did he get those on his feet?? His sandy hair was sticking out at odd angles. And his eyes, while incredibly limpid, were slightly crazed.
"I strive to continuously express my gratitude to the Universe," Viggo murmured, his vowels lazily leaning against his consonants, occasionally knocking them over, then helping them up. It was all a slow, husky, lazy, sleepy slur.
"I do this by chanting Sanskrit phrases every morning, by writing notes to myself on my jeans, rather than using up the precious resource of paper. And also by projecting my gratitude forth, by sending thank-yous to every soul who has ever touched me. Some day I'll be able to write thank-you notes to every soul who <em>will</em> ever touch me. But I haven't yet evolved to that level of awareness."
Viggo blinked, seeming to bring himself back to planet Earth. "And also, uh... .I like to use stars and glitter and stuff to make everything really, really special!! Like, each thank-you note is individual and unique. One might have red stars and gold glitter, while another might have different colored inks, and like, the ones to people I feel are extra-special, have the full-on treatment!! Multi-colored stars AND glitter AND different colored inks! But everyone, everyone gets a special and unique post-it note with words I've written just for them. And the really, really important words are highlighted with these fluorescent pink and yellow pens! And there was this big sale at Staples, and I really lucked out!! Look at all the stars and glitter and stuff I got!! I can express my gratitude in oh so many special ways!!"
Orlando and Elijah stared in utter bewilderment at the man before them. Orlando's pretty mouth was agape. And yet, it still managed to look beautiful. Christ, even his uvula was beautiful. You could actually see it. That's how agape his mouth was.
After several long minutes, Orlando finally came to his senses and spoke. "Uh... ... that's really nice, Vig. It fails utterly to explain what you were doing in my closet, but I'm sure you'll enlighten us. Now, why don't you come out? Nice and slow. That's it... we're not going to hurt you... ."
Dazedly, Viggo managed to put one foot in front of the other and cautiously step out of the closet.
"That's it, Vig," Orli soothed. "Why don't you just sit down and take it easy. You don't look well. And you sure don't sound well."
Orli pulled the unresisting star of A Walk on the Moon—the part that kind of put him on the map—by the arm and gently sat him on the bed. Viggo was slightly sweaty, and his eyes were unfocused.
"But still limpid!" Elijah said brightly. Then he muttered under his breath, "Shit! There's that word <em>again</em>!"
"Silver glitter, that's what I forgot to get... .." Viggo mumbled. "Too much gold... I used too much gold... I should have mixed in silver with the gold... made people feel even more special... ."
Orlando gently patted his back. "That's OK, mate. I'm sure you did just fine. Gold glitter is just brilliant, and I'm sure everyone'll feel really, really special. Extra-special. Now please—how did you end up in my closet?"
Elijah giggled. "Hee-hee! Vig's in the closet!! " Then quickly shut up when the Troy star shot him a dirty look.
"That's just it... " Viggo said dreamily. "I just feel led to certain places, and I never know why... but I trust in the cosmos that I am always led to the right place at the right time, even if I don't know the reason behind it... I trust that there is a plan, and that I am part of that plan, and that I plan to learn all about the plan, as I aspire to greater consciousness. So I cannot say how or why my path brought me here, my friend. Only that I am so deeply honored to have been drawn here in my travels. And I would give you all the glitter, and all the stars in the world to express my gratitude that you are my fellow traveler. And I would even use my extra-special rainbow stationery to write you a note!" Viggo finished proudly, an almost triumphant gleam in his eyes.
"Isn't that <em>special</em>!" Elijah chortled. Until Orlando smacked him on the arm.
"God, it's worse than I thought," Orli said gravely, shaking his head. "Poor Vig. I'm afraid you're beyond our help. But mate, how'd you fall out of the folding chair onto your arse? You didn't see anything... odd, did you?" The Ned Kelly star's voice took on a sudden urgency. "Like, a box? With a bunch of small, tube-like things in it? Nothing like that, right?"
Elijah stared at Orlando, his brows knit in absolutely adorable confusion. The most adorable confusion that could ever or will ever be seen on the face of a human being.
"What the hell have you got in there, Orli? Wait a minute... .you're not stockpiling root-beer flavored—"
"SHUT-UP!!" Orli snapped. "No! It's nothing like that!"
"I don't remember a box," Viggo said slowly. "I just remember taking a break, because my hand was cramping up from scribbling furiously — you know, I'm always scribbling furiously. Usually in my tattered, dog-eared journal, which I carry with me everywhere. At any time of day or night, I can be found scribbling furiously—Anyway, I was leaning back, already a little dizzy from inhaling glitter, and I saw all these horrible, clashing colors and patterns... nightmarish! And I blacked out and fell out of the chair. God, it was awful... ... " Viggo crinkled his face in painful remembrance. "It was like... some ghastly kaleidoscope from the lowest depths of hell!" He shivered at the memory.
"Hee-hee! He's talking about your clothes!!" Elijah's voice sailed out into a new fit of giggles. Until he was smacked again. A bit more forcefully this time. The impish sprite's shoulders sagged. Seriously sagged. In a slovenly, sad, sorry, saggy, suddenly un-spritely way. "God... now I'm never gonna get laid," He muttered.
"Alright, Viggo, Alright," Orlando sighed. "Now, as much as I love ya, mate, would you please leave? Elijah and I were... in the middle of something."
Elijah suddenly, magically resumed his sprightly countenance. The child star of the really sucky movie North, which Roger Ebert really, really hated , positively beamed. "I WILL get laid!"
Viggo shuffled out of the bedroom and towards the front door.
"Wait! you're leaving all your glitter and stars and rainbow shit!" Orlando called after him. He groaned in frustration. Couldn't a bloke just fucking get laid without some wack-job writing thank-you notes in his closet?? And leaving fucking glitter and highlighter pens all over the floor? Surely, every young man has asked himself this question at one time or another, but knowing this didn't help Orli's increasing agitation. God DAMN it! He had a hobbit to screw! And it seemed the world was conspiring against him! What, did God have some problem with hot, sweaty, male-on-male humping? More women than he cared to acknowledge were out there in cyberspace, desperately trying to prove otherwise! He squared his shoulders at this encouraging thought. It helped, that his pervy thoughts and intentions were so enthusiastically supported, by so many.
Feeling much better, the Black Hawk Down star (he hasn't been in that many movies, OK??) and former RADA student smiled and bent to gather Viggo's post-its and stars and highlighters, glitter and stickers and rainbow stationery. And the dozens of stamped and addressed thank-you notes. He looked at them, and he couldn't help but grin. Each envelope was a different pastel color, the names meticulously written in variously colored inks. Glitter was sprinkled here and there, and stars affixed in carefully symmetrical patterns. One envelope had a sticker that said "Go, Girl!" An extra-extra special addressee, Orli guessed.
Orlando felt his eyes mist up. "It's just fucking cute." He said to himself, sniffling. "Viggo, wait!" Orli trotted into the living room, his arms full of extra-special stationery products. "You forgot your—"
He stopped and looked at Viggo, who was staring out the window as though in a trance. He still had some stars stuck in his hair, and there was a post-it on his back. Orlando peeled it off, and then glanced over his shoulder to see what the hell he was looking at. Elijah bounded up behind them. "Hey! Don't let him forget his extra-special neon pink highlighter pen!" He playfully came up behind Viggo and snaked his arm under his, holding out the pen. But the man of Danish ancestry took no notice. He was still staring, and beginning to smile. "What the hell's out there—oh, " said Elijah. " Wow. I guess I would be staring at that too."
The three looked out at a familiar, and jaw-droppingly lust-inducing figure.
"What's Sean doing here?" Elijah gaped. "And why does he seem to be doing your landscaping?"
"I don't know," murmured the Black Hawk—I mean, um, Ned K—no, I mean..Calcium Kid! That's it! I forgot about that one! Calcium Kid star. "But I intend to find out."
Orli strode toward the door purposefully. Usually, whenever he strode toward the door it was without purpose. It was usually a lazy, ho-hum affair, striding to the door. No big whoop. But this time he felt very purposeful. And his purpose was apparent to all. To grab that hunk of man-meat on the other side of the door and say "hi" by way of a blistering, tongue-wrestling kiss.
"God, " Elijah pouted. "<em>I'm</em> not getting laid after all."
Viggo sighed, "You're not alone. I really only ever get laid in fanfiction. I never have time in my real life. You know, with the thank-you notes and all. And always running to Staples. And scribbling furiously in my tattered journal."
Elijah, smiled in spite of himself. He gave Vig a quick hug around the waist, and then opened the door.
And there was a blond vision. Sean Bean, standing there in itty bitty black shorts, and nothing else. Holding a pair of garden shears. A sheen of sweat covered his golden hardness. Not <em>that</em> hardness! I meant his all over hardness. God, get your minds out of the gutter! Bathing his hardness in moistness. Glistening on every smooth plane and angle. Trailing down golden skin, droplets mingling and merging together, all with one destiny and purpose: to make this man look so fucking goddamn hot that he could inspire millions to wack off to him. Oh, wait a minute... .they do.
"Hullo there, Vig, Elijah. Orli's garden is looking a bit disheveled. So I thought I would lend my golden hardness to the task. See this sweat that's running in rivulets down my incredibly manly form? Bathing every plane and angle? Merging and mingling together with one purpose and destiny? To make me look so fucking goddamn hot that I—"
"GUH! UH!" Viggo suddenly sputtered, gasping. He bent over as if in pain.
"Are you OK, mate??" Sean looked at Viggo with concern. He came over and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Yeah! Fine! Fine! " Viggo let out a huge whoosh of breath. "Don't — don't do that!" he blurted as Sean squeezed his shoulder. "I'm uh... feeling <em>really</em> sensitive to your touch right now... a little too sensitive. If you know what I mean!."
The Sheffield native looked startled. "No... I don't know what you mean, mate. We've always had a close, easy kind of relationship, haven't we... ?" He gave his shoulder another reassuring squeeze.
"UH! Guh... ..Sean, please... back off!! Your presence has already had um, an inspiring effect!" Viggo turned abruptly and headed toward the house. "Gotta go to the bathroom. And do a little cleanup. If you know what I mean," he muttered as he loped into the front door. Leaving a mini-cloud of glitter and rainbow stars behind.
The Sharpe star was now thoroughly bewildered. He searched the faces of Orli and Elijah, who offered no clues. Until Elijah just couldn't hold it in anymore. He put his hand to his mouth but it didn't stop the raucous laughter that erupted. He practically squealed like a fangirl.
"Eeeeeeeeee!! Sean, you are so clueless!! Poor Vig just shot off in his pants—much like I did in the forgettable comedy 'All I Want'! Only his was for real! And it was because of your golden hardness! Eeeeeeeee!" Elijah fairly shrieked with giggles. Until Orlando smacked him on the arm. Hard. He was getting a bruise there, for sure.
Chastened, the star of the aforementioned All I Want stared at the ground. "God... .." he moaned. "Now I'm really, really not getting laid."
"Well, " Sean sighed, seeming to have taken no notice of Elijah's sordid comments. "I think I've ploughed hard enough. And made some holes wide enough to do some planting. Some of them required three whole fingers width! Can you believe it? And everything was so dry... but I believe I've got things nicely moistened now. And ready."
"Guh... ." Orli swallowed. His eyes glazed over. His package had swelled to truly magnificent proportions. If that package were to be mailed, it would have "OVERSIZE" written all over it.
"Orlando... you OK?" Sean asked, coming toward him. Once again, care was written all over the Shakespearean-trained actor's face. His luminous, jewel-toned green eyes stared into Orlando's deep brown ones. Hmmmm... green and brown. Green and brown. What does that make... oh, I guess more brown. A greenish brown, obviously. Not a very attractive brown, if you ask me. Kind of a sickly—
"GUH!" Orlando gasped, as Sean put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Sean, Sean, don't... don't, OK?" His eyes widened, and sweat beaded on his upper lip. Then they squeezed shut and he let out a little mewl.
"Orlando! You're mewling! " Sean said, in shock. "Has your appendix burst? Is your spleen intact? Are your kidneys hurting you? Is your uvula... ..Christ, you even have a lovely uvula. Never noticed before. Yes, quite lovely... "
Suddenly Orli turned, and very much as Viggo had, ran toward the door. "Appendix is fine! Spleen is great! Kidneys, never been better! Uvula lovely! I'll be back... just have to do a bit of cleanup. If you know what I mean."
That left only Elijah for Sean to stare at, uncomprehending. "What is going on here??" Sean's deep, silky voice held utter mystification. He looked very upset. "What is wrong with everyone? Have I done wrong by coming here? I only ever intended to help Orlando with a spot of gardening. Just to do some ploughing, some digging, some sweating. OK, a lot of sweating. Rivulets were indeed running sensual paths down my golden hardness. Some right down into my crack, if the truth be known."
"Ahem. " Elijah screwed his eyes shut and cleared his throat. No way would he embarrass himself like those two morons! Sheesh! Show a little self-control! He ignored the swelling of his own package. It could never truly be marked "oversized", but he considered it "first-class" nonetheless.
Seeing how stricken the man who played MacBeth looked, he reached out his own small, nail-bitten hand to Sean's arm to offer comfort.
"Guh... ." Sean wheezed. "Er... Elijah... could you possibly not do that? My golden hardness is uh... suddenly even more so. If you know what I mean."
"Oh, sure. I understand." Elijah smiled and removed his hand as Sean regained his composure. "Let's see what the two morons are up to in there. It's been an awful long time. Seems like a mighty long time, " Elijah frowned slightly, and then for some reason unknown to him, added "Sh-bop sh-bop, my baby."
The house seemed unnaturally quiet. "Orli? Viggo?" Elijah called. God, had Sean caused them to climax to death?? Such Sean-related deaths were not unknown. There was even a medical term for it: Auto-erotic Beansfixiation.
The manly Blades fan and the Star Wars geekboy eventually found their way into the bedroom. Where their eyes were greeted to the sight of Orlando and Viggo stretched on the bed, half naked, sweaty and flushed.
"We had to try." Orli looked apologetically at Elijah. "I mean, after all these stories, all this buildup. So many lurid descriptions of lewd acts. So many outlandish, circus acrobat positions. So much scorching, grinding sex, spectacular hummers. The fanfic... the photo manips... we HAD to try it and see if it could possibly live up... "
"And did it??" Elijah's nostrils were flaring. He was rather incensed. The room was incensed too, although in a different way. With the aroma of "Aphrodisia."
"We couldn't do it," sighed Viggo. "I'm so tired. I'm just all thank-you'd out."
"I did find a post-it up his arse though," snickered Orli. "No, seriously... " He regarded Elijah solemnly. "As much as I love Vig, what I really want to do is get me a piece of some hot Hobbit ass."
"Not a bit of schmoop to be found in that statement, to be sure," Sean grinned. "Come on, you," he nodded at Viggo. "I'll take you home. I think these two have some ploughing of their own to do."
Elijah simply could not help but squeal. "Eeeeeeeeeeeee! I <em>am</em> getting laid!!" Then he actually started jumping up and down. Orlando rolled his eyes, "Look, if I promise you everything's 'Elijahando' from now on, will you stop acting like a fangirl?"
"Eeeeeeee! No more 'Orlijah'! Eeeee! And I swear, I promise never to look in that box in the closet!! Eeeeeeeeeeee! " Elijah started to jump but rocked back on his heels, and settled down. "Oops, sorry." Orlando moved toward him, his guacamolean skin looking extra creamy in the shafts of late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. He put a finger under Elijah's chin and tilted his face.
"You don't have to do that," Elijah said happily. "I was <em>already</em> looking at you."
"I know," Orlando said softly. "It's just something we do, especially at crucial moments like this in the story. You know, it's romantic and all that piffle."
"You mean, because this moment is extra, extra special?" Elijah beamed, sunlight filtering through the alluring gap between his teeth.
"God, I've never seen sunlight filter through someone's teeth before. But your gap is indeed alluring. And yes," Orlando stopped to brush his lips against Elijah's. "This is extra, extra special. Vig would highlight it with his special neon pink marker."
With that Orli pulled out the square piece of paper from his pocket. "I again present you with this claim ticket, for your lips. This entitles me to pillage, plunder, ravage, and abuse your lips. In a good way, though."
"Guuuuuuuhhhh," Elijah groaned just before Orlando began his massive attack.
Sean and Viggo stood in the doorway, taking it all in. It was quite a lot of piffle to take in.
"Such nice young lads," Sean observed. "Made for each other, really. Equally obnoxious." Then he smiled at Viggo, a beautiful, blinding smile.
"Let's get you home. Although, you don't live in England do you? But this isn't LA either, because Orli's here and I'm here. And god knows where Elijah came from. But it doesn't matter, because this story has no discernible plot, no attention to anything even resembling reality, and positively outlandish characterizations. Except for you, Vig," He put his arm around Viggo's shoulders and gave him a big squeeze. "You're actually portrayed quite realistically."
Viggo smiled. "I'm grateful that the cosmic plan has unfolded in such a way that you have been part of the panorama that is my life. I would call you extra, extra special, and I plan on writing you a thank-you note, on my rainbow stationery. And sprinkling not only gold, but silver glitter on the envelope. "
"Well, I'm honored," Sean said and kissed Viggo's cheek. Then pulled a star out of his hair.
Viggo looked at him, his blue eyes burgeoning with tears, and looking incredibly limpid.
Sean gazed searchingly into those eyes, but something was intruding on the periphery of his mind: What the bloody hell does 'limpid' mean, anyway?
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