blythelyblythely. Miss Fi, please
find herein your promised bairthday gifts, delivered with much love.
Elijah names it espionage, drawling the word to make Billy laugh. Viggo
calls it professional discourtesy. Miranda just murmurs devastation.
Still,
Billy cannot stop watching, cannot stop unsettling Dominic with soft
green washes of eye over body. His mind and his heart, and of course
his gaze, will not let go of Dominic, and that extends beyond the
reaches of his bed.
But there is more to it. Billy read once of a wish in words, a wish
that “all things would flourish where you turn your eyes”*—
And he wishes that for Dominic with every sweep of his stare.
Alexander Pope, Pastorals
-----------------------------------
Viggo
is shunted in front of a new mirror this day, his last day of filming.
Peter needs him to see the crowned King Elessar, to approve of the
vision they've created.
But there are reasons Viggo covered his
mirror with photographs and memories, chief among them being that he
cannot watch the progression from Strider to Aragorn to Elessar, from
ranger to fighter to king—
From enigma to scene–stealer to Actor.
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, Viggo muses. And
in short, I was afraid.*
The grey–haired, grey–eyed King in the mirror approves.
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
-----------------------------------
It
takes a sense of humour to move beyond rejection, and Dominic has
perfected this just as he’s perfected the accents and the facial
expressions.
Liv is dark and beautiful and untouchable. She attracts and distracts
at once.
She had wished him better luck with the boys—and left glitter and
broken glass in her wake.
Dominic
will tell you that everything's fine; they're fantastic. But his sense
of humour won't bend to this denial, won't make things right. When
asked, he will say that her voice is made of money*—and the price for
her words is too high.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
-----------------------------------
Astin takes it seriously, this gardening thing.
He
wanders around Bag End, touching leaves and flowers. He checks for
disease, breathes in loam, and deadheads roses. The garden is his to
create, his to love.
His to murder in its time.
In the evening, Elijah wraps himself around Astin, his pale face
settling on a tweeded shoulder.
“Dinner, Sam,” Frodo whispers.
Astin watches as Dominic watches them. Watches as Dominic tears leaves
from his garden.
There will be time to murder and create, Astin thinks, resting
in the thin warmth of Elijah's arms. There will never be time to love.
T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
-----------------------------------
The
boy is beautiful, there's no doubt. Crystalline in his prettiness,
Elijah is able to rise above the impurities flowing from his lips, the
steely glares emanating from underneath his lashes.
And Ian is half mad with beauty* on that day when Elijah finally comes
to him, seeking advice, seeking truth.
Elijah's search will not lead to Ian's door. Ian understands this.
But
he can still appreciate Elijah's beauty, and he knows that Dominic—not
at all pretty but just as steely, just as impure—will guard that beauty
fiercely.
As Ian could, were he not half mad from it.
William Morris, The Defense of Guenevere
-----------------------------------
They come to him in the night, in his sleep, after hours of dancing, of
drinking.
Billy
is too tired to welcome them, but not tired enough to forbid them their
touches. At least one comes out of love, and both out of need.
Elijah
and Dominic spend their hours dearly, fighting and fucking, waiting for
Billy to intervene. He has never done so, much preferring to watch.
But
tonight their play is stranger, stronger, and they speak one after
another, a chorus encouraging Billy, the hero of their little tragedy.
“Will you—”
“Won’t you—?”
“Will you—”
“Join the dance?”*
Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland