awritinglilypea (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
awritinglilypea) wrote2010-11-15 06:50 pm
awritinglilypea) wrote2010-11-15 06:50 pm
Entry tags:
Newspaper Clippings 15/22 (Orlijah eventually, Viggo/Bean) R
Title: Newspaper Clippings
Fandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Orlijah eventually, Viggo/Bean
Rating: R
Complete: Only in my head.
Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, romance.
Chapter Summary: Elijah has some problems and then things finally seem to come to a head.
Author's Note: I'm sorry guys. First off for taking so long with this chapter and second of all, wow, I really went on with Orli and Lij not talking to each other? I didn't realize it had been so many chapters
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sparkly_shiny My darling beta who without which I would be unable to write. Also chicachellers Thanks for fixing up my stupid mistakes LMAO.
Previous chapters
The light twitching in his hands began first as he sat there on the couch, not sure how long he’d been there for.
Elijah swallowed heavily, closing his eyes. As he did so, he tilted his head back and rubbed his forehead with one hand, throbbing pain making him wince.
It’s such a mess he thought to himself, throat dry as he looked around again and his hands twitched again, need flooding him with a desperation that used to startle him but was now met with complacency.
Getting up off the couch Elijah paced back and forth, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he did so, the sound getting louder and louder until it was all he could hear.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear at his hair, tear at his flesh until the pain went away, until the urges faded, but he knew that none of that would help him no matter how much he wanted to do it.
Cleaning would help him.
Cleanliness, it was next to Godliness after all, or so his mother had always told him.
The thought of her made him snort lightly and laughter spilled from his lips until he was clutching his sides and the sound was echoing in the empty apartment.
Elijah wondered if this was what madness felt like. It seemed pretty close.
He made his way into the kitchen and threw open the cabinets, pulling out the tile cleaner.
There are a set of gloves sitting there, rubber gloves, still in the wrapping with a blue bow tacked onto them and Elijah knows that it’s Orlando who left them there, most likely in order to protect Elijah’s hands.
Hands that are shaking, trembling now as rage fills him and he finds himself seething mad in a way he’s never felt before.
It’s amazing how quickly he can go from wanting Orlando to be there so that he can hug him to wanting him here so he can rail against him, so that he can yell at him.
Elijah grabbed the gloves, tearing the bow off them and tossing them in the trash.
“Fuck you Bloom,” he muttered to himself before he pressed the adhesive side of the bow against one of the cabinet doors and then pulled out the bucket from under the sink, pouring the cleaner into it and mixing it with water.
The brush he usually used was there. Wood handle, formerly painted and now chipping and agony fills him.
Elijah dropped to his knees, trembling almost violently now as his back bows and he dipped the brush lightly into the mixture and began scrubbing the floors in earnest.
If things are clean he won’t feel so bad, he thought to himself as he scrubbed, right hand cramping almost painfully due to the ferocity in which he held the brush.
The floor was gleaming within an hour, and Elijah panted roughly, refusing to even consider looking at his palms. They ached and he couldn’t make a fist, but it would be okay.
The whole apartment needed to be cleaned.
He dumped out the cleaning solution, meticulously washing out the bucket before filling it with warm soapy water.
It takes an hour more, possibly two to finish the kitchen which included cleaning out the fridge and freezer along with all the cupboards and he’s made three trips to the dumpster to get rid of what he’s come to see as nonessential items cluttering their kitchen.
All the nonessentials are his. Everything of Orlando’s, from his coffee mug to a chipped bowl made for him by a cousin in pottery class remain in their rightful places.
The living room is next.
Elijah put together carpet cleaner and made his way to the door, starting from there, starting from where his mother had ruined any solace he could have, tracing her path until that one spot that had incensed him so.
He scrubbed with carpet cleaner, vacuumed until the noise rang in his ears, dragging the small machine around the apartment, covering the sound of his own ragged breaths as he did so.
Muscles began to ache as he trudged up the stairs to the loft, looking around; he spotted a shirt lying on the floor and snorted, grabbing it. He tossed it over the half-wall, intending to wash it before he ripped the sheets off the bed and tossed them over as well, even going so far as to vacuum the mattress.
It wouldn’t do for Orlando to sleep on a dirty bed when he came home, after all. It would be wrong.
Laughter broke through him and Elijah shoved his fist to his mouth, the taste of cleaner burning his lips and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt, the taste disgusting him almost as much as the smell calmed him.
The room smelled like Orlando and soon Elijah set about cleaning it, returning the sheets and folding the shirt to leave on the bed.
It looked pristine.
Elijah swallowed heavily and shook his head.
It just wasn’t right.
“It’s so clean,” he murmured, rocking on his heels as his eyes burned and something choked him.
It wasn’t right for Orlando’s space to be this clean, he realized, and he tossed the folded shirt on the floor, hoping that would make it better, but it didn’t and he soon found himself hurrying down the stairs.
He grabbed the dust cloths, going over every surface twice before he was satisfied with the level of cleanliness in the living room and retreated into the bathroom, which he scrubbed and cleaned and worked over without enthusiasm.
Exhaustion was beginning to settle in and his breath hitched in his throat with every other sharp inhale.
It felt wrong and he only barely registered the phone ringing, unable to even tell what time it was, completely unaware he’d been in a sort of daze for hours.
“Elijah?” It was Orlando’s voice on the answering machine and he barely listened.
He didn’t hear the worry there, the apparent concern.
He felt scorned.
Elijah hugged himself, huddled in on himself.
Maybe she was right.
He wasn’t meant to live anywhere but home.
This apartment, this life was too confusing for him.
Elijah wasn’t meant to be independent, he decided as his hands ached and tears slid down his cheeks.
He didn’t mean to cry.
He didn’t want to cry, wasn’t even prone to tears, but everything was beginning to hurt, the pain pulsating through him.
Elijah sobbed, something inside of him breaking away. He would go home.
She was right.
“Elijah?” Orlando’s voice seemed to be even more concerned now. “Look, I know you’re pretty angry with me right now, I would be angry too cause I’ve been a right prat.”
Elijah didn’t hear him, curling even further on himself; he slid properly to the floor, blue eyes sightless as his mind and body attempted to absorb his physical and emotional pain.
“Vig and Beanie shaped me up though, made me see reason, made me see we should talk. We have a lot to talk about and I’ll be home soon. As soon as I get off the phone in fact. God I hope you’re there.”
Closing his eyes Elijah allowed darkness to overtake him, exhaustion settling in.
He awoke to the sound of a door opening, as shudders wracked him, feeling cold down to his very soul.
“Elijah?” Orlando.
Orlando was there.
“‘Lij?” Footsteps approached the bathroom and Elijah closed his eyes again.
The door opened and he heard a gasp, an exhale of his own name.
“Oh god,” Orlando murmured, and insistent hands rolled him over. “Elijah, open your eyes please.”
Pleading. As far as Elijah knew Orlando never pled with anyone.
“What?” Elijah rasped.
“Oh god, Elijah, your hands,” Orlando looked stunned, “you’re sick.”
“‘M not,” Elijah protested, shaking his head. “They’re fine.”
“No, they aren’t,” Orlando insisted, curls falling into his eyes as he leaned over and stroked Elijah’s hair. “I’ll get help I promise. God, you are burning up, this is all my fault. I’ll call Vig and Bean, you’ll be okay I promise.”
Elijah closed his eyes, registering that he was being cradled against Orlando’s chest and the smell of mint filled his nostrils, like tea tree oil and something else. Orlando smelled like Viggo.
He didn’t feel well but didn’t think he was sick. Since he was going to be leaving Orlando with the rent on his own, he figured he owed it to him to at least get checked out.
But he didn’t think he was sick.
Elijah didn’t get sick.
Fandom: Lotrips
Pairing: Orlijah eventually, Viggo/Bean
Rating: R
Complete: Only in my head.
Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, romance.
Chapter Summary: Elijah has some problems and then things finally seem to come to a head.
Author's Note: I'm sorry guys. First off for taking so long with this chapter and second of all, wow, I really went on with Orli and Lij not talking to each other? I didn't realize it had been so many chapters
sparkly_shiny My darling beta who without which I would be unable to write. Also chicachellers Thanks for fixing up my stupid mistakes LMAO.Previous chapters
The light twitching in his hands began first as he sat there on the couch, not sure how long he’d been there for.
Elijah swallowed heavily, closing his eyes. As he did so, he tilted his head back and rubbed his forehead with one hand, throbbing pain making him wince.
It’s such a mess he thought to himself, throat dry as he looked around again and his hands twitched again, need flooding him with a desperation that used to startle him but was now met with complacency.
Getting up off the couch Elijah paced back and forth, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he did so, the sound getting louder and louder until it was all he could hear.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to tear at his hair, tear at his flesh until the pain went away, until the urges faded, but he knew that none of that would help him no matter how much he wanted to do it.
Cleaning would help him.
Cleanliness, it was next to Godliness after all, or so his mother had always told him.
The thought of her made him snort lightly and laughter spilled from his lips until he was clutching his sides and the sound was echoing in the empty apartment.
Elijah wondered if this was what madness felt like. It seemed pretty close.
He made his way into the kitchen and threw open the cabinets, pulling out the tile cleaner.
There are a set of gloves sitting there, rubber gloves, still in the wrapping with a blue bow tacked onto them and Elijah knows that it’s Orlando who left them there, most likely in order to protect Elijah’s hands.
Hands that are shaking, trembling now as rage fills him and he finds himself seething mad in a way he’s never felt before.
It’s amazing how quickly he can go from wanting Orlando to be there so that he can hug him to wanting him here so he can rail against him, so that he can yell at him.
Elijah grabbed the gloves, tearing the bow off them and tossing them in the trash.
“Fuck you Bloom,” he muttered to himself before he pressed the adhesive side of the bow against one of the cabinet doors and then pulled out the bucket from under the sink, pouring the cleaner into it and mixing it with water.
The brush he usually used was there. Wood handle, formerly painted and now chipping and agony fills him.
Elijah dropped to his knees, trembling almost violently now as his back bows and he dipped the brush lightly into the mixture and began scrubbing the floors in earnest.
If things are clean he won’t feel so bad, he thought to himself as he scrubbed, right hand cramping almost painfully due to the ferocity in which he held the brush.
The floor was gleaming within an hour, and Elijah panted roughly, refusing to even consider looking at his palms. They ached and he couldn’t make a fist, but it would be okay.
The whole apartment needed to be cleaned.
He dumped out the cleaning solution, meticulously washing out the bucket before filling it with warm soapy water.
It takes an hour more, possibly two to finish the kitchen which included cleaning out the fridge and freezer along with all the cupboards and he’s made three trips to the dumpster to get rid of what he’s come to see as nonessential items cluttering their kitchen.
All the nonessentials are his. Everything of Orlando’s, from his coffee mug to a chipped bowl made for him by a cousin in pottery class remain in their rightful places.
The living room is next.
Elijah put together carpet cleaner and made his way to the door, starting from there, starting from where his mother had ruined any solace he could have, tracing her path until that one spot that had incensed him so.
He scrubbed with carpet cleaner, vacuumed until the noise rang in his ears, dragging the small machine around the apartment, covering the sound of his own ragged breaths as he did so.
Muscles began to ache as he trudged up the stairs to the loft, looking around; he spotted a shirt lying on the floor and snorted, grabbing it. He tossed it over the half-wall, intending to wash it before he ripped the sheets off the bed and tossed them over as well, even going so far as to vacuum the mattress.
It wouldn’t do for Orlando to sleep on a dirty bed when he came home, after all. It would be wrong.
Laughter broke through him and Elijah shoved his fist to his mouth, the taste of cleaner burning his lips and he wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt, the taste disgusting him almost as much as the smell calmed him.
The room smelled like Orlando and soon Elijah set about cleaning it, returning the sheets and folding the shirt to leave on the bed.
It looked pristine.
Elijah swallowed heavily and shook his head.
It just wasn’t right.
“It’s so clean,” he murmured, rocking on his heels as his eyes burned and something choked him.
It wasn’t right for Orlando’s space to be this clean, he realized, and he tossed the folded shirt on the floor, hoping that would make it better, but it didn’t and he soon found himself hurrying down the stairs.
He grabbed the dust cloths, going over every surface twice before he was satisfied with the level of cleanliness in the living room and retreated into the bathroom, which he scrubbed and cleaned and worked over without enthusiasm.
Exhaustion was beginning to settle in and his breath hitched in his throat with every other sharp inhale.
It felt wrong and he only barely registered the phone ringing, unable to even tell what time it was, completely unaware he’d been in a sort of daze for hours.
“Elijah?” It was Orlando’s voice on the answering machine and he barely listened.
He didn’t hear the worry there, the apparent concern.
He felt scorned.
Elijah hugged himself, huddled in on himself.
Maybe she was right.
He wasn’t meant to live anywhere but home.
This apartment, this life was too confusing for him.
Elijah wasn’t meant to be independent, he decided as his hands ached and tears slid down his cheeks.
He didn’t mean to cry.
He didn’t want to cry, wasn’t even prone to tears, but everything was beginning to hurt, the pain pulsating through him.
Elijah sobbed, something inside of him breaking away. He would go home.
She was right.
“Elijah?” Orlando’s voice seemed to be even more concerned now. “Look, I know you’re pretty angry with me right now, I would be angry too cause I’ve been a right prat.”
Elijah didn’t hear him, curling even further on himself; he slid properly to the floor, blue eyes sightless as his mind and body attempted to absorb his physical and emotional pain.
“Vig and Beanie shaped me up though, made me see reason, made me see we should talk. We have a lot to talk about and I’ll be home soon. As soon as I get off the phone in fact. God I hope you’re there.”
Closing his eyes Elijah allowed darkness to overtake him, exhaustion settling in.
He awoke to the sound of a door opening, as shudders wracked him, feeling cold down to his very soul.
“Elijah?” Orlando.
Orlando was there.
“‘Lij?” Footsteps approached the bathroom and Elijah closed his eyes again.
The door opened and he heard a gasp, an exhale of his own name.
“Oh god,” Orlando murmured, and insistent hands rolled him over. “Elijah, open your eyes please.”
Pleading. As far as Elijah knew Orlando never pled with anyone.
“What?” Elijah rasped.
“Oh god, Elijah, your hands,” Orlando looked stunned, “you’re sick.”
“‘M not,” Elijah protested, shaking his head. “They’re fine.”
“No, they aren’t,” Orlando insisted, curls falling into his eyes as he leaned over and stroked Elijah’s hair. “I’ll get help I promise. God, you are burning up, this is all my fault. I’ll call Vig and Bean, you’ll be okay I promise.”
Elijah closed his eyes, registering that he was being cradled against Orlando’s chest and the smell of mint filled his nostrils, like tea tree oil and something else. Orlando smelled like Viggo.
He didn’t feel well but didn’t think he was sick. Since he was going to be leaving Orlando with the rent on his own, he figured he owed it to him to at least get checked out.
But he didn’t think he was sick.
Elijah didn’t get sick.