Emy (thefrenchgirl2) wrote,

Mismatched - Chapter 1/? - Part 2/2

Previous Parts : Part 1 


:: ::



The Bolton Hotel – Wellington, NZ – 4p.m.


“God, Lij…”


“Missed me, hey?”


“You fucking know I did.”


“You did a good job showing it with all those phone calls I never got.”


“Mmmh, Lij. Stop talking, just–”


“Why didn’t you just drop by? Why did you have to wait for a fucking cast reunion in New Zealand?! I live thirty miles away from your house.”


“Couldn’t… too busy.”


“Yeah, too busy fucking your wife, huh?”


“What? No! Elijah!”


“So… when exactly were you going to tell me about it?”




“I can’t believe I fucking learnt it on the internet. Through and accidental Google search, no less. Thanks.”




“Don’t ‘Lij’ me.”


“Elijah. Please understand.”


“I understand perfectly. Go get fucked, Orli. I’m not doing this anymore.”




:: ::

The Mount – Tauranga, NZ – 6p.m.


It’s a creepy thing to think there are people in the world that know a lot more about you than you know about them. It’s an even creepier thing to think you are in possession of a big part of someone else’s life without them even knowing it.


A suitcase can contain many things, many personal things. You can easily get to know someone just by a short analysis of what their suitcase contains.


This is how, after a few hours, Lucy had drawn this catalogue:



Profile  of  M. ‘X’

-         Male.

-         Quite tall. About 5’10”. (the trousers)

-         Long in some places… (takes shoe size 10 US.)

-         Skinny. (too tight jeans.) [I can’t even fit in them]

-         Quite young? (follows fashion and likes Lady Gaga.)

-         Likes bad movies. (Flipper with Frodo [WTF?])

-         Has a friend? named Sblom (nickname?) [apparently, bad-movie Flipper = gift from Sblom. Card (found inside DVD-case) says “Watch your competition.”] --- > sexuality undefined in to bestiality?

-         Reads Lord of the Rings. (one up) [has weirdly highlighted in fluorescent yellow the name Legolas in some chapters.]

-         Favourite colour: yellow? (underwear, towel, toilet bag, toothbrush, banana-toothpaste.)

-         Sexuality undefined. (banana-flavoured extra-large condoms, banana-flavoured lube [definitely yellow as favourite colour], ahem, anal plug, lime –coloured  silk ties [found with the condoms, lube and anal plug]

-         Has a crush on Miranda Kerr (two pictures: one of her in a wedding dress [found as bookmark in the Lord of the Rings], the other, naked [found with the condoms, lube etc.])

-         Wears horribly tight boxer-briefs (one up). [but they all have yellow on them. (one down)]

-         Surfer. (wet-suit) (one up)

-         Wears a lot  [too much] of dark blue, black and brown.

-         Has a ‘nice’ – distasteful - colourful button-down shirt. [looks at least ten years old.]

-         Likes Football. (Man-U t-shirt.)

-         Has nice handwriting. (small notebook) [no compromising information found]

-         Hair colour: dark brown. (hairs found on hairbrush.)

-         Uses baby-oil. [WTF?]

-         Very nice perfume.

-         Owner of a bizarre unidentifiable object, the purpose of its use yet unknown.



The whole suitcase was dug through: at first sight, clothes lying discarded on the floor after inspection; toilet bag carelessly thrown inside-out, its contents scattered all over the bedspread; notebook, half-open, landed up-side-down on the bedside rug.


Yet, looking slightly closer, defined piles were easily noticeable; categories they were really, and with a good logical sense it was clearly understandable why such classification was necessary.


It was as she toyed with the bizarre, greenish unidentifiable object, that she discovered it, well-hidden between dirty socks and disgustingly-yellowish ex-white sweat-pants. A video-tape. She smiled, and bit her bottom-lip. Now, mister X… that’s cheating.


Her bare feet squeaked on the wooden floor as she ran down the hall, skidded round a few shelves, through the kitchen to the living-room where she flung herself on the couch, facing the bare screen of her television.


She studied the small black case carefully, slowly swivelling it on all axis. It was labelled ‘New Year’s Eve 1999 - 2000’.


The TV-screen turned blue as she fiddled with the remote control, and plugged in the video-player, previously neatly tucked away in a nearby cupboard – what was the use of a video-player nowadays?


She paused; pondered. She was finally going to discover the face of the man who had occupied half of her day – and occupied her thoughts all day long.


Never had it crossed her mind that maybe, at this precise moment, mister ‘X’ was also analyzing her own stuff from her own bag – because, of course, if she had his, he had hers, right?




:: ::



The Bolton Hotel – Wellington, NZ – 6p.m.

come on. Get a grip. Self-control. Self-control. You – are – going to be – fine. Fuck the kid – twenty-nine-year-old kid – still a kid, anyway.


Who the fuck had had this brilliant ‘reunion’ idea when everyone – e-very-one, no exception – was in a fight with at least one other member of this bloody fellowship?! Certainly not you, Orlando-fucking-Bloom. Certainly not. You had other things on your mind, thank-you-very-much.


Everything had turned out a disaster. Not the movies of course, but everything else – the friendships, the relationships.

That’s the problem with living around the same people for over four years: you all bond, and here comes happiness, joy, laughter, passion, yet drama, sadness, tears, violence. Sometimes you wish you didn’t have to live around the same people 24/7, without any chances of escape. Although, when this time has passed, you eventually realize you have to cope with the fact of not-living around these same people all the time – because, in the end, it was so much better the way it was, wasn’t it? And then, the bomb explodes, only the bitter taste of false happiness remaining. And here comes the lies, the excuses… the distance.


New Zealand had been a shelter, Orlando, had been your own little world for a few years. You had left everything to start a new life there. It was finally the path to fame, brought to you on a silver platter – the one thing you had long obstructed, yet here it was.


You somehow grew-up in New Zealand. It was a lot of hard work, but it was also one big party – the best party you have ever attended. That was ten years ago, and you still haven’t moved on – no Hollywood parties will ever exceed New Zealand. You pretend. Of course you pretend, everyone pretends – acting is like lying. You’re and adult, you have to show your acceptance of life, of newness, of change. To become adult, you have to know how to move on, look back sometimes, but still follow this long straight road that is time. According to your own theory, you conclude you are no adult and think it’s time to stop lying – to everyone, but mostly to yourself.


And maybe the one stranger, out of the five billion, nine hundred, ninety-nine million, nine hundred, ninety-nine thousand, seven hundred and seventy-eight in the world, the fucker who had this brilliant ‘reunion’ idea, wasn’t that stupid after all.




:: ::



The hotel room is too calm, and you are really, really tired. The truth is, you definitely need a good night’s sleep to face what is waiting for you tomorrow – you don’t even want to think about it, don’t you?


How long has it been, Orlando? How long has it been since you have reunited like this? Two years, maybe, for the hobbits – without Sean… Viggo? haven’t heard from him since 2005; and Ian? Liv? You almost start thinking it’s a shame John and Bean couldn’t come. Peter, Fran and Philippa will be having dinner with you all tomorrow evening, which will be nice; but you still fear the moment when all of you will have to end up face to face again.


Because now, you must know, Orlando – and you’d admit it – everyone pretty much fucked everyone. And that’s what fucked it all up.


That’s the thing when you live around the same people 24/7 for over four years. That’s what always happens in the end: even if there are hundreds of make-up artists and crew members, the danger, the thrill of forbiddance that lies in the act of getting involved with a co-star will always be more appealing. You learnt that in baby-blue eyes and planes of pale skin.


A sigh, and another. You eye your suitcase, lightly deposed on the bed by Elijah a few hours before. A nice hot bath would be good – the perfect cure for these thoughts in your mind; ahem, not really -- hot water only makes you think even more. You are starving.


So, here’s the plan: have a quick shower, get nicely dressed, call Dom – he’s already in, isn’t he? – and go out for dinner with this man who will totally understand your point of view on this.


You open the brown case, absent-mindedly. You search your way through the mess of clothes to the… yellow toilet bag… you are so… proud… of.


What is a pink bra doing in my- Oh fuck.


“Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh no, oh no, oh no. No no no no no. No way. No – fucking – way, man. That is so not funny. Fuuuuck, God dammit!”




:: ::




“Dominic Monaghan speaking.”


“Dom. You have nothing planned for tonight? Good. Go get whatever take-away you feel like – if it’s vegetarian at least – it’s on my bill. And get your big fat arse to my room straight away. I’m at the Bolton hotel. I need your help.”


“Good evening, Orlando. It’s so good to talk to you too. I’m fine, thank you! Your room, straight away? Hasn’t Elijah satisfied your needs al-”


“Oh, please, none of this!”


“I see you are quite uptight tonight. Is it the E-subject, again?”


“No! Well, um, yes, partly… but the resolution of the E-subject has been rescheduled on my long list of priorities.”


“What is it, then?”


“I lost my bag.”




“I said, I lost my bag, man! No, wait, let me rephrase that. I got the wrong one – at the airport.”




“Uh… yeah. Man, how could it have happened? I’m always careful – never had it happen before!”


“Hey, Orli. It’s okay, calm down. We can just call the airport and tell them you mixed up your bag with someone else’s.”


“I know. You see, the thing is, it’s really fucking worrying to know someone out there in fucking New Zealand has Orlando Bloom’s personal belongings!”


“Don’t you think you’re going a bit too far, here? No one will know it’s yours! Except if you labelled it, of course – which is a very stupid thing to–”


“One of the tapes was in it.”


“What tapes?”


“You know what tapes I’m-”


“Oh fuck.”


“I know.”


“Oh – fuck. Okay. I’m here in half an hour.”




:: ::


Tags: fic, mismatched

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