Pairing: Orlando Bloom/Brian Molko
Rating: Erm, PG-13? for bad language & mention of gay sex(oh my)
Summary: Orlando reflects on the past
Disclaimer: I don't own either of the boys. But if I did I'd lock them up and make them wear leather.
Orlando smiles widely, waving at his fans as flashbulbs blind him. He grits his teeth and bears it.
There are girls screaming at him, shouting his name, and yet he’s never felt more alone and unloved that when he’s staring into crowds.
It’s strange how, at times like this, he’ll think back and remember things, remember him.
Remember me through flash photography and screams.
It’s like a curse.
The year he’d started at Guildhall had been a whirlwind time. For the first time in his life he was footloose and fancy free, living it up at every nightclub London had to offer. He tried to charm the ladies- mainly failing- but feeling a strange surge of pride each time his lines would work, and he could take her back to his scummy flat.
He worked in pointless jobs, ones where he didn’t have to think, just to pass the time, to get him through the day. He lived for his acting classes, and for his nights.
He wishes he could remember the first time he met Brian. Supposedly life is full of those moments, those times of first meetings. All he remembers is having the realisation that it was as if he’d always known him, that they’d always been doing this.
Brian was a musician, struggling slightly, which made him even cooler, more realistic. He would tell Orli about recording sessions in Dublin, how this album they’d created would ‘really mean something, you know?’ as he chain-smoked the night away.
Orli would study his movements, watching as Brian would tap another cigarette into his palm, and light it from the almost burnt out stub of the previous one.
Each time, Brian would look up and smile, and offer Orli the newly lit cigarette, before lighting another for himself.
And Orli would take it with shaking fingers, savouring the slight dampness of the filter from the brief moment it had spent between Brian’s lips. Sometimes the slightest hint of lipstick remained on the tip, and Orli would absentmindedly run his tongue across it, wondering what it would be like to wear it himself.
Looking back he should have known what was happening, why his heart would thump against his ribcage each time he spotted Brian across a crowded dance floor, how his palms would start to sweat, leaving damp patches on his jeans where he rubbed them dry.
Orli wonders, if he could go back in time, whether he would warn his teenaged self about Brian.
Orli sits on an uncomfortable sofa, nervously biting his nails. He’s still not sure what he’s doing here in this waiting room.
All he knows is that in fifteen minutes he has an appointment to see Peter Jackson. Which is a little confusing, since the last time he auditioned for them, he lost the part to someone else.
He bites his lip, wondering if the actor they chose rejected the role, and they’ve called him back in. Faramir of Gondor…it sounds like a promising role. Not the biggest part, but he wouldn’t expect anything better. And in such a possibly major movie. He’d heard the buzz about it, knew the expectations—
He looks up to see the hobbit-like man grinning at him, barefoot on the wooden floor.
Orlando stands hesitantly, and follows Peter, crossing his fingers behind his back for good luck.
An hour later he steps out onto the pavement, stunned. His feet move him automatically to the curb, and he raises one hand, hailing a taxi.
It’s only when he’s seated inside the black cab that he looks down at the script lying on his lap.
It’s a fairly major role. Not many lines, but plenty of running around and shooting things. A lot of screen time. It’s unreal.
He’s still in shock, unsure how to react.
“You alright, mate?” the cabbie asks, and Orli looks up into the man’s eyes reflected in the rear view mirror.
“Yeah,” Orlando answers with a slightly shaking voice. “I…just got given a part in a big movie,” he adds, the shock replaced with that sense of pride he seldom feels these days.
“Congratulations!” the Cabbie exclaims. “So you’re an actor, eh? Big part? I’d be calling all my friends and family by now if I were you.”
Orlando nods, knowing who he wishes he could call first.
Remember me when you clinch your movie deal
“Yeah,” he says after a long pause. “I guess I should go home and call my mum, eh?”
And he does. He calls everyone he knows.
He’d loved dancing with Brian. He was so different to all of Orli’s other friends. They could dance close, bodies pressed together and it wouldn’t feel weird. It was like dancing with a girl, except without the awkwardness that Orli had always felt around women. This was easy. This was free.
He’d felt liberated when they left the club together, twirling out onto the pavement, stumbling into each other as they walked the two blocks to Brian’s one room flat.
Orli had never been there before. It suited its occupant- dark, mysterious and moody.
Inside, he’d flopped down onto the bed, knowing he’d be suffering a rum induced hangover come morning.
He’d opened one tired eye, seeing Brian bent over slightly, reapplying his lipstick. Mouth suddenly dry, he’d watched him wordlessly.
“What?” Brian asked, seeing Orlando in the mirror. He’d sounded slightly peevish, as if the intense scrutiny was too much.
He’d shrugged. “I was just wondering what it would be like to wear lipstick,” he’d replied, not really thinking, not really caring what he said.
Brian had turned to give him a penetrative look. After a moment or two of silence, he’d held out his hand, the tube of lipstick between his long fingers.
He’d reached for it, curiosity turning to surprise as Brian stepped backwards, out of reach. He’d stared at him for a moment then stood on wobbly legs, his hand closing on the lipstick.
Their eyes had met, like some ridiculous movie.
He’d stood there like an idiot, unsure what to do. He couldn’t think, and the room was spinning, his head was aching. He’d needed to sit down, to hold onto something solid.
He’d closed his eyes.
And then he kissed Brian. There was no thought, no deliberation, nothing. Nothing but the heat and passion, and that sense of pride, achievement, that he valued so much, yet came to him so seldom.
When they broke the kiss, he’d seen his reflection in Brian’s mirror, dark lipstick smeared around his mouth.
The air stewardess hands Orli his meal and he smiles at her, trying to turn his attention back to the small Scottish man nattering away by his side.
30 000 feet in the air, heading 13000 miles from home. It’s a concept Orli finds himself struggling with.
He supposes most people would have issues leaving home to travel across the world. Regrets, indecisions.
He just needs to get away. He needs to be in a place where Brian isn’t, where he won’t go.
It’s the perfect escape.
“Wouldn’t you agree?” Billy is asking him, and Orli stares at him blankly.
“What?” he asks, and Billy grins and repeats himself.
“Placebo, they’re a good band, eh?” he indicates to the music magazine on his lap, open to a large picture of the band.
“Yeah,” Orli manages to say eventually. He tears his eyes away to stare out the window at the clouds, and fakes a loud yawn.
“I think I’ll have a little sleep,” he announces, and Billy nods, with a friendly smile.
Orli closes his eyes, hearing the rustle of paper as Billy turns the pages in his magazine.
Later when the soon-to-be-hobbit dozes off, Orli reaches over to lift the magazine from his lap, flicking through till he finds the article he wants.
Brian’s black-rimmed eyes gaze up at him, almost mournful, and Orli resists the temptation to scribble across his face, to tear the page into tiny pieces.
Instead he carefully tears the pages out, folds them as tiny as possible, and slips them into his jeans pocket. Then he slips the magazine back into Billy’s grasp, wondering if his new friend will be confused when he finds the pages missing.
Orlando returns home from college one day to find his door ajar.
Puzzled and on guard, he enters the flat cautiously, dropping his bag on the floor and edging his way into the bedroom.
Brian is rummaging in his wardrobe, throwing clothes over his shoulder. Orli watches as a shirt flies through the air, billowing as it parachutes onto the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning against the door frame, trying to appear nonchalant.
Brian jumps and spins around. For a moment Orli enjoys the panicked, guilty look on his face, so different from his normal I-don’t-give-a-fuck composure.
“I’m leaving,” Brian says shortly, collecting himself. “I’m taking my things back.”
“Leaving?” Orli doesn’t understand. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere,” Brian replies, his head buried in the wardrobe again. There’s a moments pause as he pulls a T-shirt off a hanger and shuts the doors with a bang. “Anywhere where you’re not.”
Orlando doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t have the energy anymore.
He just watches him go.
It’s funny how beautiful people look when they’re walking out the door.
Six months later, he’s back, acting as if nothing has changed.
Orlando comes home from a club one night, alone as usual. It’s lost its sparkle somehow, this magical world of alcohol and music, and he’s happy to come home, to the quiet, to the calm.
He puts his key in the lock, pushes open the door, drops his keys on the table, like he always does. Wanders towards the bedroom, shedding clothing as he goes, too tired to pick up after himself.
He reaches the living room and stops.
Brian looks up from the sofa.
“Hey!” he says, jumping up. “Have a good night?”
Orlando stares at him for a moment, then, confused, glances at his watch, as if to confirm just how long Brian’s been gone.
“What…what are you doing here?” he asks, realising that he should have changed his locks, should have moved, should have done anything, something, because seeing him again is melting his legs.
Brian steps towards him, closing the notebook he’s been scribbling in and dropping it onto the coffee table.
Orli manages to step back, shaking his head.
“But…you were gone, you were missing.”
Brian shakes his head.
“No, not me. You were the one who was missing,” he says as if making a profound statement, and Orli has a second to wonder if, just maybe, Brian’s right, before he’s forgiving everything and wanting Brian to hold him like he used to.
He awakes in the early hours before dawn, feeling that familiar coolness of Brian’s skin pressed against his back, the smaller man curled around Orli’s form.
Part of him wonders if this is another dream, but for the first time in half a year, Brian feels solid, real.
Orli doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to question for fear of losing him again.
Orlando accepts his award, poses for photos with cast members, signs autographs by the dozen.
When this is all over, he’ll stop at one of the after parties, meet some young thing, and usher her into his chauffer driven limousine. He’ll take her back to his snazzy LA penthouse apartment, ply her with champagne.
When he started drama school, this was the life he wanted.
Remember me when you’re the one who’s silver screened
Remember me when you’re the one you always dreamed
Maybe it’s not what he wants anymore.
Early one morning, Orli yawns as he opens his front door, peering out with bleary eyes.
“Packaged for Orlando Bloom,” the Fed-Ex guy states in a monotone as he stifles a snigger at the name. Orli ignores him, and nods, signing and taking the package before muttering a hasty ‘thanks’ as the guy walks away.
He stumbles barefoot into the kitchen, dumping the package onto the table and making himself a coffee.
It’s only when the caffeine has invaded his blood stream that he reaches to open the package. He doesn’t think, assuming it’s yet another script change/ costume check/ whatever.
“Shit!” he exclaims, pulling his hand out of the box hastily to suck at the blood welling on his finger.
Making a face, he gingerly peers inside the box, finding a single white rose with black thorns, resting on a bed of straw. Surprised, he reaches to pick the flower up, but the cut on his finger is deeper than he thought, and great big drops of blood splash down onto the pristine whiteness of the petals, turning them scarlet.
Carefully, he lifts the rose from the box, placing it beside his coffee cup on the table, and looks for a return address.
Of course there isn’t one, only a small label saying it was sent from London, England. It could be from anyone. But Orli thinks he knows better.
He puts the rose, blood and all, in a glass of water, accidentally knocking the empty box to the floor. Straw spills out onto the linoleum, and Orli sighs, bending to scoop it up. As he lifts the upturned box from the floor, something falls out.
A CD, in a cardboard case. There’s nothing written on it, no evidence to suggest what it is.
After a long moment of looking at it, he slips it into his stereo, sitting motionlessly as the song plays.
When it ends he stands up and leaves the room, heading for a shower.
At least, he thinks, he knows who sent the rose now.
And he thinks he understands Brian a bit more.
“I’ll write you a song some day,” Brian says one morning as they lie tangled in sweat soaked sheets.
“Will you?” Orli asks, secretly pleased. “What will it be about?” he rolls over onto his stomach, and Brian grins.
“It’ll be about your ass,” he says, lowering his head to press his teeth into the flesh there. “I like the flavour of your skin. It’s just right.”
Orli giggles, and sits up so his lips meet Brian’s.
“Seriously though, you’re really going to write a song about me then?” he asks later and Brian smiles.
“Promise?” Orli asks, avoiding Brian’s kiss.
Brian sighs. “Yes. I promise, okay?”
Orli is grinning as Brian kisses him.
“We should get some sleep,” Brian says, in one of his rare responsible moments. He leans over, kisses Orli on his forehead.
“Special dreams,” he says before rolling onto his side, and drifting into a quick, easy sleep.
He always said that. Special dreams, not sweet dreams. All your dreams should be special when you’re with me, he’d said, months and months ago.
Orli watches Brian sleep for a moment or two, then lies back and tries to have special dreams, dreams of another life, of everything he wants but doesn’t have.
Orlando will never know why Brian left. He’s realised that now, years later. Maybe there wasn’t even a reason. He hates that he let him walk in and out of his life, but Brian is like that. He can make everything you thought you knew change in a heartbeat.
Orli had woken up, sweat and heavier body fluids dried on his skin, and found him gone. It was almost as if he’d never even been there, had never come back. There was something final about the silence of it, that let Orli know that he was really gone this time.
He used to think about it sometimes, alone in his flat, late at night. It used to bother him, made him question himself more than he’d have liked.
Orli decided he didn’t quite like the taste of lipstick so much after all.
Remember me, Orlando thinks with a wry smile.
How the fuck could he forget?