A Stupid Argument (Eric/Karl)
Mar. 18th, 2005 04:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
horseboykarlThe late morning sun slants golden light across the end of Eric’s bed. He’s made an excellent breakfast of crepes and fruit and papaya juice, which tastes even better when eaten in bed. We’re still lazing around afterwards debating what to do with the rest of our day.
“Hmm, it’s Sunday, right?”
“Yes, and what does that mean? You look like you’re planning something.”
I smirk at him. “You could say. The Hobbits taught me a bit of American slang. You might know it . . . six ways to Sunday.”
“I’ve heard of that. Who are the Hobbits?”
“Oh, you know, Dom and Elijah and Sean Astin. We hung around a quite a bit in L.A. So when I tell you I’m going to fuck you six ways to Sunday, you know what that means?”
He looks uncomfortable for a moment and I wonder if I’ve totally misjudged him. But then his face eases and he snickers and stretches himself out beside me, showing off, his lean muscles stretching over his tan skin, the brown hair on his body catching fire in the sunlight. “Why don’t you explain?”
My breath catches at the gorgeous display and I roll over on top of him and growl, “It means brace yourself, baby.”
His eyes go wide and he lets out a little whimper and I proceed to get creative.
But a few ways later, while we’re resting, he says, “That bothers me, you know.”
I’m confused. I just shagged him pretty thoroughly and he seemed to enjoy it, so . . . “What bothers you?”
“The way you so casually sling around the names of world renowned actors as if they were nothing.”
I squeeze him, not sure what to say and not sure how I messed up. How did we get into this discussion?. But Eric is frowning and his body is tense. “They’re my friends, just regular blokes. What am I supposed to say?”
“You know way too many famous people. That David Wenham showed up in my shop after we started going out, I suppose that was a coincidence?” His voice is irritated, sharp.
I sigh. “Dave’s a good mate of mine . . . and a worrier and a busybody. I told him I met someone and he just wanted to see who you were.”
He snaps, “Then I guess I’ll have Viggo Mortensen on my doorstep next, checking out the competition when he decides to reclaim his former lover!”
“Viggo? What? You can’t be serious!”
He frowns at me and I want to laugh.
“For starters, in case you haven’t read the papers, he’s got Orlando Bloom, the most gorgeous being on the planet, what would he want with me? And second, we’re not former lovers, we’re just friends, nothing more.”
“Do you think I’m a child?” He sits up, drawing the sheet around him defensively. “I saw the pictures! The two of you in bed together, with your hands all over each other, that just-fucked look on your face most of the time.”
I rake my hands through my hair in frustration. “Those pictures . . . they were just jokes, all of them. You gotta understand . . . Viggo, he’s a loon. He’s a force of nature, he . . . he draws you in and you’re on the most amazing or crazy adventure you ever dreamed of . . .”
I trail off because I can see this isn’t helping and he’s getting madder. His eyes have gone frosty and his posture is rigid. “Look, my sense of humor is pretty cracked, too, and Vig and I were more like partners in crime, not lovers.”
I almost smile remembering our evil chuckles as we planned those scenes out, right down to leaving my pants unzipped. Those pictures were aimed at the media and the public, but also at our fellow castmates. Always leave ‘em guessing. I can almost hear his soft drawl. But one look at Eric’s angry face tells me a smile would be out of place at the moment.
But now this whole thing is starting to piss me off. This is totally unfair. “Where did you see those, anyway? None of them are recent.”
He looks slightly ashamed. “I googled you.”
“What?”
“When you first came in my store . . . I was curious.”
“Well, next time google Viggo, you can find him with his hands on pretty much everybody he knows.” I get out of bed and angrily pull my pants on. “What the hell is this anyway?”
“You can call Peter Jackson on the phone, the man who could be the supreme dictator of New Zealand if he wanted to, and he’d talk to you, day or night, right?”
“No, he wouldn’t, if he was busy he’d tell me to fuck the hell off, but if he wasn’t we might chat a bit, yeah. What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re famous, you’re friends are famous, it’s intimidating!”
How do I explain this to someone who wasn’t there? “For fuck’s sake, I’m not famous. Here, I made two movies that took a good chunk of my life and my friends’, and they . . . I don’t know, they changed us, they bonded us in ways I can’t explain.” And it’s not just the fucking bowl, the bonds were there before.
“Yeah, heard it all . . . the Fellowship, closer than brothers, whatever. Where’s your tattoo?”
Abruptly I’ve had enough of trying to explain myself. “If it bothers you so much, why the fuck are you with me? I’m a bloody farm boy, barely fucking educated, one year of uni, not cultured, not sophisticated. I’m eight years younger than you. Not in your class at all.” My lungs are heaving and I’m just trying to breathe, trying to understand why I appear to be losing something that matters so much to be just because of . . . nothing.
He looks surprised. “Because you’re funny and beautiful.”
He stands up, the sheet still around him and says softly, “I guess I’m just jealous of your other relationships.”
I laugh bitterly. “Relationships? I’ve never had a long term relationship before, and now I guess I can see why . . . I’m so fucking bad at it.” I pull the rest of my clothes on, looking around for my boots.
“Wait, Karl . . . “ He lays a hand on my arm. “I didn’t know, I’ve been imagining you leaving a string of broken hearts behind and I didn’t want mine to be one of them. I’m sorry, I’m just feeling insecure, please don’t leave. I just want you so much, but I can’t understand why you would want to be with me. Why are you?”
“I’m with you because you’re smart and fun and fucking gorgeous.”
He smiles and picks my hand up to kiss it. “Okay, I guess I can live with that.” His face is open again.
I look into his green eyes and I sigh. “The people I know don’t change who I am, either you accept that or you don’t.”
He gives me a wry grin. “I’m working on it. Come back to bed, let me make it up to you.”
I let him strip my clothes off and we forget our harsh words for a while. But later, when he’s drifted off in my arms, I lay awake thinking. This talk of Viggo made me remember that he has had his own problems and I never called him or Orli to offer my support. Why didn’t I? What was I doing that I couldn’t just pick up the phone? I think back . . . oh, yeah, I was sunk into my own shift-induced insanity. It may be too late but I’ll at least try to let him know I’ll always believe in him.
The other thing . . . I stare at my split knuckles, wondering why he didn’t ask about them or the other bruises decorating my body. He knows I’m still after those punk fanboys, he must’ve assumed I tangled with them. Because it’s pretty obvious that I’ve been in fight. Or at least my body has . . . if Eric can’t accept my famous friends, how is he ever going to handle my other friends? How will he take the knowledge that I have the future King of Rohan on speed-dial in my head? Totally and utterly impossible.
“Hmm, it’s Sunday, right?”
“Yes, and what does that mean? You look like you’re planning something.”
I smirk at him. “You could say. The Hobbits taught me a bit of American slang. You might know it . . . six ways to Sunday.”
“I’ve heard of that. Who are the Hobbits?”
“Oh, you know, Dom and Elijah and Sean Astin. We hung around a quite a bit in L.A. So when I tell you I’m going to fuck you six ways to Sunday, you know what that means?”
He looks uncomfortable for a moment and I wonder if I’ve totally misjudged him. But then his face eases and he snickers and stretches himself out beside me, showing off, his lean muscles stretching over his tan skin, the brown hair on his body catching fire in the sunlight. “Why don’t you explain?”
My breath catches at the gorgeous display and I roll over on top of him and growl, “It means brace yourself, baby.”
His eyes go wide and he lets out a little whimper and I proceed to get creative.
But a few ways later, while we’re resting, he says, “That bothers me, you know.”
I’m confused. I just shagged him pretty thoroughly and he seemed to enjoy it, so . . . “What bothers you?”
“The way you so casually sling around the names of world renowned actors as if they were nothing.”
I squeeze him, not sure what to say and not sure how I messed up. How did we get into this discussion?. But Eric is frowning and his body is tense. “They’re my friends, just regular blokes. What am I supposed to say?”
“You know way too many famous people. That David Wenham showed up in my shop after we started going out, I suppose that was a coincidence?” His voice is irritated, sharp.
I sigh. “Dave’s a good mate of mine . . . and a worrier and a busybody. I told him I met someone and he just wanted to see who you were.”
He snaps, “Then I guess I’ll have Viggo Mortensen on my doorstep next, checking out the competition when he decides to reclaim his former lover!”
“Viggo? What? You can’t be serious!”
He frowns at me and I want to laugh.
“For starters, in case you haven’t read the papers, he’s got Orlando Bloom, the most gorgeous being on the planet, what would he want with me? And second, we’re not former lovers, we’re just friends, nothing more.”
“Do you think I’m a child?” He sits up, drawing the sheet around him defensively. “I saw the pictures! The two of you in bed together, with your hands all over each other, that just-fucked look on your face most of the time.”
I rake my hands through my hair in frustration. “Those pictures . . . they were just jokes, all of them. You gotta understand . . . Viggo, he’s a loon. He’s a force of nature, he . . . he draws you in and you’re on the most amazing or crazy adventure you ever dreamed of . . .”
I trail off because I can see this isn’t helping and he’s getting madder. His eyes have gone frosty and his posture is rigid. “Look, my sense of humor is pretty cracked, too, and Vig and I were more like partners in crime, not lovers.”
I almost smile remembering our evil chuckles as we planned those scenes out, right down to leaving my pants unzipped. Those pictures were aimed at the media and the public, but also at our fellow castmates. Always leave ‘em guessing. I can almost hear his soft drawl. But one look at Eric’s angry face tells me a smile would be out of place at the moment.
But now this whole thing is starting to piss me off. This is totally unfair. “Where did you see those, anyway? None of them are recent.”
He looks slightly ashamed. “I googled you.”
“What?”
“When you first came in my store . . . I was curious.”
“Well, next time google Viggo, you can find him with his hands on pretty much everybody he knows.” I get out of bed and angrily pull my pants on. “What the hell is this anyway?”
“You can call Peter Jackson on the phone, the man who could be the supreme dictator of New Zealand if he wanted to, and he’d talk to you, day or night, right?”
“No, he wouldn’t, if he was busy he’d tell me to fuck the hell off, but if he wasn’t we might chat a bit, yeah. What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re famous, you’re friends are famous, it’s intimidating!”
How do I explain this to someone who wasn’t there? “For fuck’s sake, I’m not famous. Here, I made two movies that took a good chunk of my life and my friends’, and they . . . I don’t know, they changed us, they bonded us in ways I can’t explain.” And it’s not just the fucking bowl, the bonds were there before.
“Yeah, heard it all . . . the Fellowship, closer than brothers, whatever. Where’s your tattoo?”
Abruptly I’ve had enough of trying to explain myself. “If it bothers you so much, why the fuck are you with me? I’m a bloody farm boy, barely fucking educated, one year of uni, not cultured, not sophisticated. I’m eight years younger than you. Not in your class at all.” My lungs are heaving and I’m just trying to breathe, trying to understand why I appear to be losing something that matters so much to be just because of . . . nothing.
He looks surprised. “Because you’re funny and beautiful.”
He stands up, the sheet still around him and says softly, “I guess I’m just jealous of your other relationships.”
I laugh bitterly. “Relationships? I’ve never had a long term relationship before, and now I guess I can see why . . . I’m so fucking bad at it.” I pull the rest of my clothes on, looking around for my boots.
“Wait, Karl . . . “ He lays a hand on my arm. “I didn’t know, I’ve been imagining you leaving a string of broken hearts behind and I didn’t want mine to be one of them. I’m sorry, I’m just feeling insecure, please don’t leave. I just want you so much, but I can’t understand why you would want to be with me. Why are you?”
“I’m with you because you’re smart and fun and fucking gorgeous.”
He smiles and picks my hand up to kiss it. “Okay, I guess I can live with that.” His face is open again.
I look into his green eyes and I sigh. “The people I know don’t change who I am, either you accept that or you don’t.”
He gives me a wry grin. “I’m working on it. Come back to bed, let me make it up to you.”
I let him strip my clothes off and we forget our harsh words for a while. But later, when he’s drifted off in my arms, I lay awake thinking. This talk of Viggo made me remember that he has had his own problems and I never called him or Orli to offer my support. Why didn’t I? What was I doing that I couldn’t just pick up the phone? I think back . . . oh, yeah, I was sunk into my own shift-induced insanity. It may be too late but I’ll at least try to let him know I’ll always believe in him.
The other thing . . . I stare at my split knuckles, wondering why he didn’t ask about them or the other bruises decorating my body. He knows I’m still after those punk fanboys, he must’ve assumed I tangled with them. Because it’s pretty obvious that I’ve been in fight. Or at least my body has . . . if Eric can’t accept my famous friends, how is he ever going to handle my other friends? How will he take the knowledge that I have the future King of Rohan on speed-dial in my head? Totally and utterly impossible.
