Limpidity

LIMPIDITY

Author: Kendra
e-mail:kendravision@yahoo.com
Pairing: EW/OB, appearances by VM and SB
Rating: R, mainly for language
Disclaimer: I do not know these people, and none of these events took
place. And if anyone thinks they did, well, there’s no help for them.
Notes: This is BADFIC. But in a good way, I hope. :)
"What I am" is by Edie Brickell. Unfortunately.
Bonne Bell Lipsmackers are by Bonne Bell.


LIMPID (lim'pid adj) Characterized by crystalline clearness; transparent. 2.) Characterized by clarity, lucidity or purity.

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.

"Huh??"

"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 The The "Pirates of the Carribean" star'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 you 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 into 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 c "I "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 onlishlish 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..’s t’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 *I* 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!!" !"

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 Midsomer
Murders" pinned him between his sinewy, sword-fighting-hardened thighs
and leaned over. "Elijah,e whe whispered roughly in his ear. "Do you have
any English in you?"

Elijah gaped at him, wide-eyed. "Um...no..?"

"Would you *like* 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 pulout 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 *sister* 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, a loud THUD echoed throughout the room.

The former British American Drama Academy 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 wat him 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

"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 sticroduroducts 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 he Uhe 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 *will* 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 utteuttered under his breath,
"Shit! There’s that word *again*! "

"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 learl abl 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 *special*!" 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 sa. I. In a
slovenly, sad, sorry, saggy, suddenly un-spritely way.
"God...now I’m never gonna get laid," He muttered.

"All right, Viggo, All right," 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 got up, and 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 BADA 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 smile. 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 so 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. "*I’m* 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 followed Orli, walking through the open 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 *that* 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 already 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 *really* 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 back 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."

Sean's sparkling green, limpid eyes sparkled even more. "Are you quoting
from 'Hello Stranger'? I just love Yvonne Elliman. Almost as much as I
love Edie Brickell."

As the two made their way back inside, something was intruding on the periphery
of Elijah's mind. A sort of Deja Vu involving Edie Brickell...

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: Autoerotic
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 tiny 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 *am* 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 crea in 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 *already* 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 groanest bst before Orlando began his massive
attack.

Sean and Viggo stood in the doorway, taking it all in. It was quite a bit 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, my friend. 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, extreciaecial, 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?

END