DrWorm (drworm) wrote,

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Yes. I make words up. And I also use David Ive's made-up language, Unamunda. I'll admit it.

Anyway, I wrote Viggo/Elijah drabble. Again. Even though it was painful and I want to die because it's so bloody awful. >___< Kill me, please?

pulchritudinous- adj. characterized by or having great physical beauty and appeal.

“You’re such a girl, Elijah.”
He puts up with it because he tells himself he likes to be pretty, to feel pretty, not in a make up and skirts and high heels Barbie doll sort of way, not like a girl. But he wants to be pretty all the same, because pretty things get all the attention. And he likes attention, he really does. He likes good attention, positive attention, even as other people prefer the attention they get from being victims and manipulative bastards and negative sexual role models for small children. He wants to be told he’s smart, attractive, interesting, fun. He likes being touched, is a whore for it sometimes, but not in a sexual way, just in a desperate, needy way when he begs unconsciously for physical contact and attention, attention, attention. “Notice me!” the little voice inside his head cries when he stretches his lips apart for another tired smile.
And attention from women is nice—it’s everywhere now, it seems: in the streets, in Seventeen magazine, on the Internet and he can’t really avoid it—but what he really seeks is the approval of other men, the men who have an eye out for pretty things. One night, while the cameras flashed and the people thronged and the reporters loomed, Ian had leaned over and whispered in his ear, as if he was imparting some great secret unto Elijah, “You look perfect tonight.” And then he’d slipped away almost immediately and Elijah had been left with a grin that stretched from ear to ear and a lingering wonder. How had Ian known that he’d wanted to be told something like that, something so simple?
He asks himself often whether he seems desperate, whether others see him that way and whether that’s the image he wants to put forth. But all actors are a little desperate, he always responds jadedly. Because an actor is nothing more than a media prostitute, selling themselves to the highest bidder. Sometimes he feels like self-promotion is no better than standing at a street corner and then he tells himself that he has a right to feel pretty, to feel needed, to feel loved. But when Billy grabs his hand or Dominic lets his hand linger on his shoulder just long enough for him to feel the heat and the weight, he always tries not to lean into the touch, not to make it seem like he wants it, not to hold on too tight or too long because he knows that the look of something is as important as the thing itself, how in some cultures thinking about doing something is the same as doing it, and he doesn’t want Billy or Dom to look like anything they aren’t or be accused of anything they’d never do just because of him.
He sees where pretty can get you, men and women alike. He sees it even at the premieres and on the posters. Galadriel, Arwen, and Legolas all are sleek and perfect and pretty in every sense of the word. He has watched Orlando go from nobody to somebody with his elf ears, his long blonde wig, and his aloof and mysterious eyes. A pretty actor with a future, if he’s a good boy and plays the slut for the talk show hosts and the entertainment magazines. And then there’s Frodo, his Frodo, the Frodo with the wide, childlike eyes and tousled brown hair, the character everyone just wants to comfort. And people fawn over him and give him attention, but it’s really attention for Frodo, for his martyrdom. Not for Elijah.
He hates almost all commercial pictures of himself because they seem fake, they are fake, posed and poised and unhappy. So months ago, months that feel like years, when the snows came and Viggo pulled out his camera and snapped photo after photo, Elijah had felt happy. Elated. There were to be no poses this time, no barriers of false pretences. And as the shutter had clicked and the machinery of the camera had whirred, Viggo had whispered “You have pretty lips like an angel.” And Elijah had looked up suddenly, startled. Viggo had snapped another picture. “Cupid’s Bow lips; you’ve heard it before. I know you have.” And he’d lowered his camera. Elijah had stood, stumbled, and shaken the snow out of his hair. “’I met her in a club down in North Soho where you drink champagne and it tastes just like cherry cola,’” Viggo sang nasally as he’d taken a hesitant step toward Elijah. And Elijah had taken a step and Viggo had taken a step and it was give and take until they were touching, kissing, and Elijah was using his lips in ways that angels didn’t. He’d felt pretty in that moment, but ugly in the next when Viggo had pushed him gently but firmly away. “Sorry, Lola,” he’d whispered, brushing one fingertip over Elijah’s bottom lip.
When he’d walked away, shoulders slumped, head bowed and camera swinging from his hands, Elijah had hugged himself and looked at the world around him and had known, without any doubts, that he didn’t like being pretty, would never, ever like being pretty as much as he would yearn for it, crave its feel, its taste, its texture and its pain. But deep down, even as he told himself that he liked it, that he liked those feelings, he would make decisions unawares to eschew the hurt and mire in the superficial. He would push the paranoia induced by millions of eyes watching him, undressing him, molesting him deep into the pit of his stomach and only accept the momentary love he felt when someone told him how handsome he was, how gorgeous his eyes were, how smooth and pale pink his lips…
He thinks being told you are pretty is another form of identity rape.
Because people like to watch pretty things suffer.

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