Jan. 2nd, 2005 01:01 am
Ficlet: Untitled
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fox_confessorBean/Bloom. (and gave me Ummmmmmm... chocolate (cake). shower (rain). lost (in spirit). key (to his change). tricycle (childhood)--parentheses mine)
Epiphanies are not Orlando's strong suit, so he's quite surprised when on a late flight to Los Angeles he finds himself pondering his career and the life he's just left behind him in London. Sean was right when he said it would never be like it was in New Zealand. Still, he would have liked to give it a go.
The captain's voice pulls him out of his own thoughts and he looks out the left side of the plane, as directed, to see the lights of New York City below him. They twinkle in clear night and are nothing like they look up close. Orlando knows this--that things are always brighter (more real, more wonderful) up close.
He knows he isn't leaving a life behind. Not the kind of life he would like to have. Instead, he's left his childhood, and all the hopes and dreams he had while riding his tricycle around his mum's garden. Taking up his drink, he laughs quietly at his ability for personal drama.
"It's beautiful from up here, isn't it?"
Orlando hadn't taken notice of his seat mate before. The key to getting through a twelve hour flight, he'd discovered long ago, was to either completely ignore your seat mate or chat them up. Tonight, with the memory of Sean's carefully practice speech in the hotel last night, he'd gone for pretending he was alone on the flight.
Giving a noncommittal grunt, Orlando turns his eyes from the window pretending that looking at New York from a cruising altitude of 20,000 feet was the least interesting thing going.
"Norman."
It's harder to ignore the hand, however, that is now stretched in front of him. Orlando finds a smile to plaster on, wishing that he hadn't turned down the flight attendant's offer of alcohol so long ago. "Orlando."
"I know. I recognized you."
Orlando quickly catalogues his faults in an effort to discover what he did to deserve this: recognized on the red eye to Los Angeles, only hours after being let down as kindly as one can be under the
circumstances. Circumstances he doesn't even give thought to now. He tries to be gracious, but knows he's going to fall short. "A fan. Great."
He never expects the laugh. "Fan? No. Not quite, though you're pretty enough. I'm not exactly a fan of the prancing elf type, however."
"I've never pranced," Orlando tries in his best movie-star voice, something else that falls short. He gives it up, letting his shoulders slump, a slow pout forming on his lips. He also wishes, in addition to
the alcohol, that he hadn't stashed his bag in the overhead compartment. He has nothing to distract him except his mp3 player--the batteries of which had died at least three hours ago.
"C'mon. I didn't mean it like that. I just recognized you because we were at the same party the other night and I asked someone who you were."
"Oh," Orlando replies dully, wishing that he could go back to being annoyed for being recognized as a prancing elf. This is almost worse. Though he went to several parties while in London, there can only be one to which Norman-of-the-red-eye-flight can be referring to.
"Will it help if I say I'm an actor too?"
"No, actually. Makes it a bit worse, doesn't it?" Orlando isn't happy to hear the laughter again, but he's never been good at surly. "So, are you or aren't you?"
"I am. In movies and everything."
"Anything I'd recognize?" Perfected this time, Orlando thinks, remembering he's been in the best movie of all time. Yet, just as he's deciding that his tone and the way that he's sure Norman-of-the-red-eye will cringe makes up for the lack of alcohol and dead batteries, the man has a come back—a come back Orlando really could have done without.
"You're all of 19 or 20, right? Being passed around a party like a favor?"
"Not a whore," he mumbles, crossing his arms over his thin chest and in full-on pout now.
"Of course not." Norman leans back in his chair, mimicking Orlando.
"And I'm 26."
"My apologies."
"Sean is straight."
"Great, so am I. So is everyone in Hollywood."
"I mean it," Orlando argues, even thought He has kids and ex-wives."
"Ex. Yeah. I have a little boy." Norman offers the bottle again, and this time Orlando takes it. While Orlando takes a slow draw, Norman digs out his wallet and trades Orlando the bottle for a small picture.
"He's cute."
"'Course he is. His mother is gorgeous." Norman takes a drink, and then the picture. Holding it up, he smiles at the boy in the picture before tucking it back into his wallet. "Doesn't mean I can't still find you particularly attractive."
Epiphanies are not Orlando's strong suit, so he's quite surprised when on a late flight to Los Angeles he finds himself pondering his career and the life he's just left behind him in London. Sean was right when he said it would never be like it was in New Zealand. Still, he would have liked to give it a go.
The captain's voice pulls him out of his own thoughts and he looks out the left side of the plane, as directed, to see the lights of New York City below him. They twinkle in clear night and are nothing like they look up close. Orlando knows this--that things are always brighter (more real, more wonderful) up close.
He knows he isn't leaving a life behind. Not the kind of life he would like to have. Instead, he's left his childhood, and all the hopes and dreams he had while riding his tricycle around his mum's garden. Taking up his drink, he laughs quietly at his ability for personal drama.
"It's beautiful from up here, isn't it?"
Orlando hadn't taken notice of his seat mate before. The key to getting through a twelve hour flight, he'd discovered long ago, was to either completely ignore your seat mate or chat them up. Tonight, with the memory of Sean's carefully practice speech in the hotel last night, he'd gone for pretending he was alone on the flight.
Giving a noncommittal grunt, Orlando turns his eyes from the window pretending that looking at New York from a cruising altitude of 20,000 feet was the least interesting thing going.
"Norman."
It's harder to ignore the hand, however, that is now stretched in front of him. Orlando finds a smile to plaster on, wishing that he hadn't turned down the flight attendant's offer of alcohol so long ago. "Orlando."
"I know. I recognized you."
Orlando quickly catalogues his faults in an effort to discover what he did to deserve this: recognized on the red eye to Los Angeles, only hours after being let down as kindly as one can be under the
circumstances. Circumstances he doesn't even give thought to now. He tries to be gracious, but knows he's going to fall short. "A fan. Great."
He never expects the laugh. "Fan? No. Not quite, though you're pretty enough. I'm not exactly a fan of the prancing elf type, however."
"I've never pranced," Orlando tries in his best movie-star voice, something else that falls short. He gives it up, letting his shoulders slump, a slow pout forming on his lips. He also wishes, in addition to
the alcohol, that he hadn't stashed his bag in the overhead compartment. He has nothing to distract him except his mp3 player--the batteries of which had died at least three hours ago.
"C'mon. I didn't mean it like that. I just recognized you because we were at the same party the other night and I asked someone who you were."
"Oh," Orlando replies dully, wishing that he could go back to being annoyed for being recognized as a prancing elf. This is almost worse. Though he went to several parties while in London, there can only be one to which Norman-of-the-red-eye-flight can be referring to.
"Will it help if I say I'm an actor too?"
"No, actually. Makes it a bit worse, doesn't it?" Orlando isn't happy to hear the laughter again, but he's never been good at surly. "So, are you or aren't you?"
"I am. In movies and everything."
"Anything I'd recognize?" Perfected this time, Orlando thinks, remembering he's been in the best movie of all time. Yet, just as he's deciding that his tone and the way that he's sure Norman-of-the-red-eye will cringe makes up for the lack of alcohol and dead batteries, the man has a come back—a come back Orlando really could have done without.
"You're all of 19 or 20, right? Being passed around a party like a favor?"
"Not a whore," he mumbles, crossing his arms over his thin chest and in full-on pout now.
"Of course not." Norman leans back in his chair, mimicking Orlando.
"And I'm 26."
"My apologies."
"Sean is straight."
"Great, so am I. So is everyone in Hollywood."
"I mean it," Orlando argues, even thought He has kids and ex-wives."
"Ex. Yeah. I have a little boy." Norman offers the bottle again, and this time Orlando takes it. While Orlando takes a slow draw, Norman digs out his wallet and trades Orlando the bottle for a small picture.
"He's cute."
"'Course he is. His mother is gorgeous." Norman takes a drink, and then the picture. Holding it up, he smiles at the boy in the picture before tucking it back into his wallet. "Doesn't mean I can't still find you particularly attractive."
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