Part Two
“Thanks, Dan, that’s all we need of that set.”
Daniel squints blearily past the hot lights, towards someone he keeps hearing and suspects to be the authority figure around here. “What do you want me in next?”
“There should be a blue shirt in your dressing room.” The way his voice emits from the pure white, makes Daniel think of the way it must be to talk to God. But what’s with all the grumpy technicians and lighting guys? They’re not very saintly, and they’re not very angelic. And a studio isn’t very Heavenly. But the luminescence makes a difference, the ethereal glow gives it more than a glitz or a glam. Sort of like diving into an untouched beach on one of the Fiji islands. Daniel’s positively baking in the sand; hot, sweaty, and his eyes are sore from the glare.
“Mmk,” is all he says, and races into the darkness (or what seems to be), taking care not to charge into someone or something like a blind rhino.
His eyes adjust slowly, and by the time he reaches the right corridor, he hears a cracked, dry throated word that stops him in his tracks. “Hey.”
Elijah sounds like he’s just smoked half a pack of cloves and drank one of those sweet, iced coffee smoothies from Starbucks. He walks towards him smoothly, a panther in that beatnik get-up. Daniel is immediately uncomfortable in the starched jeans that have threads tickling his bare legs.
“How’s the shoot going?”
There’s a big patch of red on Elijah’s neck, Daniel blinks quickly before he’s caught staring. He’s a handsome guy, there’s absolutely no reason he shouldn’t be sucking face with some material girl with false eyelashes and Loréal Paris oil-free foundation. Oh, yes, the green-eyed monster. Too late, Elijah rubs his neck and his fingers come away pink. “The makeup guy swiped me with his fucking little sponge thing, ya know, that they use for wiping away excess lipstick and whatever? Well he got distracted with another model and wasn’t paying attention and got me. Then Clint -- the photographer -- practically dragged me out by the scruff of my neck because he was rushed for his freaking lunch break. So all he says is, ‘Adjust the lighting so his neck doesn’t show up.’ But I still feel like those pictures are gonna be all over the tabloids in a few weeks about Elijah Wood and his Mysterious Hickey -- front page, of course,” he adds grimly.
Daniel laughs, “It’s not so bad though. I mean, at least they made some effort in attempt to conceal things.”
“That’s true. But these fucking magazine people are just so bossy and crabby.” He eyes Daniel suddenly, narrowed at his chest, like he’s counting his heartbeats per minute with his X-ray vision. “And all the designers only manufacture cool clothes for the junior lines.”
Daniel settles his eyes down his front, wondering what could be so appealing about a T-shirt with a quote by some guy named Yossarian.
One step, and Elijah is suddenly so close to him, they can hear one another’s breathing and Daniel can see the smears of makeup on his neck. Elijah smoothes his fingers across the short sleeves, and (Daniel’s breath hitches) across his sternum, inspecting the weaving like he was a fucking seamstress. Tug, pull, stretch, pat, swipe. Daniel’s back is a foot away from the wall, and he wishes Elijah would just press him against it and suffocate him in smoldering tongue and lips and wandering hands. But Elijah’s asking him something now.
“Huh?”
“What brand is it?”
“Oh!” Daniel feels heat blooming in his cheeks, and he shrugs his shoulders stiffly. “Dunno.”
Those fingers trace their way behind his neck and trickle down his bare skin just barely, curling themselves around the tag. Daniel has decided that he is most definitely one big puddle of goo; melting, gurgling and bubbling in ecstasy, because Elijah Wood’s got his arms wrapped around his neck and his face is inches away from his own, peering down his shirt collar. His knees will buckle and he’ll collapse before this moment is over, and he’s only half listening when Elijah mutters the brand name and how their factories are all in poor countries with bad working conditions and low pay.
Daniel’s afraid of anything and everything that isn’t more than one syllable salivating from his limp mouth. It’d all turn into incoherent mush that semi-resembled something mortifying: “UyabuhdaguhYersohotandIwannaeatyoursoul.” That in mind, “oh,” is all he says.
