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Title: For Christmas
Author: Shanalle
Original Story: Seansonably Warm by Sarah H.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Billy/Orlando
Summary: He's never asked for much on Christmas.
Notes: My entry for the Lotrips Remix 2004.
Disclaimer: This is a remix of another author's fic - both stories are 100% fiction. Thanks so much to for the beta work.


Christmas Day

Billy wakes Christmas morning with a sense of relief. He rolls over in his bed, stretching out his arms and legs, and revels in the simple fact that he's alone.

He's never asked for much on Christmas. His Gran could never afford much after his parents' death, and he grew accustomed to accepting small tokens of affection, abstract sentiments, and other non-material things each year.

This year there's nothing tangible for Billy to hold onto, but that's exactly what he wanted.

24 December

Billy's palms are sweaty against the shining paper. The small box rattles a bit in his hands, and he sets the package on the floor before someone notices that his hands are shaking.

Yes, he's nervous. He's been nervous for days, weeks even. Edgy and short and completely not the person he prides himself on being.

Sometimes he can't even look at Orlando without getting angry.

It's not Orli's fault. And that's precisely the reason the package nestled between Bill's legs on Elijah's ugly brown carpeting is so fucking important.

Because Billy's gonna give it all back to Orlando.

He doesn't remember exactly when it began, this unspeakable build-up of resentment. Even sadder is that, even when he thinks really hard, Billy can't remember a time when he didn't feel this way, though he knows there must have been good times.

There are things, trinkets and such, that remind him of these good times - enough evidence around his own flat to lead him into believing this hasn't all been myth. He's got photographs and gifts, Orlando's shorts in his bureau and his toothbrush at his sink. Notes that had been taped to his trailer door after a long night of filming, Orlando's messy longhand telling him he loves him.

It's difficult to push that all aside and say it's been nothing. But when he looks at Orlando from across the room, he knows that even if there was something, there's nothing left now to hold onto.

Four or five drinks in and it all starts to blur, the chatter and the laughter and Elijah singing Christmas carols in an off-tune falsetto, and Billy can almost begin to smile. Until he meets Orlando's eyes, and then his hands grow clammy again.

Even though he'll apologize later for it, he's not sorry at all. Even the look on Orlando's face as he leaves Elijah's house, it's not enough to make him sorry.

He remembers once for Christmas, when he was about fifteen or sixteen, Billy bought his sister a guide to playing Led Zeppelin on guitar, and she yelled at him that she didn't even have a guitar, let alone an interest in playing one. His Gran had yelled at him, too, saying it was selfish to give his sister a gift that he would take for his own in the end. He had told her he was hoping they could both enjoy it in the long run.

23 December

Billy remembers a time when Orlando could make him climb the walls with sexual frustration. When just a glance from those eyes, those big brown eyes that just fucking smoldered when he was aroused, and Billy would be fourteen again and trying not to come in his trousers.

There was a time when Orlando's lithe body moving over his, inside of his, meant the whole fucking world to Billy. And he tries to hold onto that now, while Orlando moves above him. He really tries to fucking feel it.

It's not happening.

His breath comes out in huffs and, shit yeah, it does feel good. It's just the right amount of pushing and kissing and stroking and soon enough, it culminates to just the right amount of sex to make Billy come.

Orlando was always good in bed.

He rolls over and away from Orlando, hoping that a cuddle isn't in order. He feels hot and sweaty and all but bloody suffocated by Orlando's presence. He moves farther away from him on the bed, presses himself into the corner and curls into a ball.

Even though they aren't touching, he can still feel the weight of Orlando, pressing down upon him.

22 December

Billy has always been a planner. He's meticulous and methodical and all those other m-words that mean he's an anal bastard. He's never been one to go at something half-arsed, and this time is no exception.

He might have even possibly written out a plan - well, it was more of a list, really. And it might have then been put into numerical order, ranked from most important to least.

He's never denied he's an anal bastard.

Billy wanted to start small, so he began with the things that Orlando wouldn't notice right away. A t-shirt here, a pair of socks there. Some CDs they'd taken to the beach. That jacket Billy had left hanging on the back of a chair. It'd been there for weeks, anyway.

The following day, it was something a little more noticeable. While Orlando showered for their morning shoot, Billy scoured the cupboards. Orli's kitchen had accumulated about four or five mugs of Billy's over time, and he gathered them quickly and drove off in his car, leaving a short note. The note was nondescript and bereft of any sentiment. Billy couldn't bring himself to lie when half of the kitchen was in his backseat.

Today it's a bigger step. The bathroom.

Billy knows Orlando is bound to notice - he'd have to be positively blind to not, really. But at this point, Billy's not sure he cares so much.

He misses his things. Christ, he misses his flat. When was the last time he'd slept there, anyway? Somehow they always wound up at Orlando's. It was closer to set and, for a while, Billy hadn't a preference.

As long as he was with Orli, he had thought. The recognition that just being with Orli isn't quite cutting it anymore is a feeling he grows more used to by the day.

Orlando is still sleeping as Billy tiptoes to the bathroom and showers hurriedly. Once finished, he opens his bag and gathers the accessories to his shaving kit, his spare razor and his favorite shaving cream. Next, his shampoo. Comb. Last, the toothbrush.

He leaves another note and drives off to set, his morning rituals stuffed comfortably in the knapsack inside his trunk.

21 December

Billy is alone in the corner of the room, nestled snugly against a large, fake tree and hidden from the rest of the cast. He's got his tattered copy of Fellowship in one hand and a styrofoam cup of tea in the other.

He's almost content.

There's a pounding in his head, one that's made itself at home for the entire week so far, and he can't seem to get rid of it. But, besides that, he's doing alright. He's got about thirty or forty minutes to go over some scenes in his head before shooting restarts, and he plans on taking advantage of the quiet. He closes his eyes and sips his tea, trying to channel Pippin.

Of course, he's alone for about thirty or forty seconds. Then Dom, munching on an apple, decides to plant himself down right next to Billy.

"What're you doing?" he chomps.

"What does it look like?" And if Billy is shorter than usual with his best mate, he can't be blamed. He's trying to concentrate, after all, and there's this crunching in his ear that's matching the rhythmic throbbing in his head, and he may as well give up.

Dom studies him. Billy can't help but think he looks like a puppy like this, cocking his head to the side and eyeing Billy, his mouth curved into a half-frown.

"You okay, Bills?"


Dom pauses, bites, chews. Swallows. "You sure? You don't want to…talk about anything?"


Dom nods. "Okay, I'll just…I'll leave you alone, then." He rises to his feet and dusts off his hobbit pants. "You just tell me if you feel like chatting, alright?"

Billy sticks his nose back into his book.

20 December

"I didn't say we had to go surfing. I said I'd like to." Orlando is looking at him with a pout that any four-year-old would envy. Surely he thinks he'll get his way now.

But Billy's not having it.

The whole thing is ridiculous, really. There's no good reason they shouldn't go surfing with the rest of the guys. Despite it being almost Christmas, the New Zealand summer sun is hot and shining. The waves are probably perfect. And it's their first day off in weeks.

But disagreeing with Orlando suddenly seems to be very important, and surfing hasn't been the issue this entire afternoon, if Billy admits it to himself.

"If you want to go surfing so badly, why don't you just go?"

Orlando's mouth forms a straight line, a sure sign he's losing his patience with Billy, and it's no wonder. He's certainly giving the four-year-old routine himself. He might as well lie down and beat the floor with his fists for the temper tantrum he's been giving.

"I wanted to maybe spend the day with you, too. God knows why, with the way you're acting now, though."

Billy's temper flares. "Well you don't have to worry." He stands, sending his chair skidding across the kitchen floor. "I'll be sure to leave you alone, then. We don't have to be attached at the goddamn hip, anyways."

He grabs his keys and starts to head out the door.

"Where are you going?" Orlando is calling after him, telling him to wait. "Billy, please…"

"I'm going for a drive." Billy says, and slams the door behind him.

19 December

In Scotland, at least where Billy grew up, there were never any Christmas lights. That wasn't due to a lack of spirit, no. It was merely the living conditions at the time. There simply wasn't a plausible way to hang lights from the seven-story housing project he grew up in.

But his home was always well decorated. His mum had taken pride in hanging her wreath on their front door and, when she had time, she'd even put some together for their closest neighbors.

He was always fond of that tradition, especially since his Gran had carried it on, long after Billy had grown up.

The thing was, he just never cared for Christmas lights. No reason to waste all that electricity, he'd always thought. A fire hazard, too.

So when he comes home to Orlando, teetering from a ladder at the roof, he's less than thrilled.

He squints up at him, and it's far too bright for December. He rummages for his sunglasses in his back pockets, only to realize he's left them in the car.

"Do you like them?" Orlando asks him, and he looks so damn excited. Maybe another day, Billy would have smiled at his exuberance, but for some reason it only irritates him today.

He shrugs. They're nice, he supposes, if one liked that sort of thing. He gives a weak response, not being able to sound any more sincere than he actually is.

He blames it on the sun in his eyes.

18 December

Billy's morning routine hasn't changed much over the course of the last few months. His schedule has been rather monotonous as the hobbits film all of their Hobbiton scenes, but Billy hasn't minded. He likes routine.

He likes rising at the same time every morning, taking the same amount of time to get ready for work. He likes having his tea and toast before he showers and leaving the house with his hair still wet, letting it dry with the windows down.

This morning is no different. The alarm next to him goes off precisely at 4:15 as always, and the kettle is in the kitchen, waiting for Billy. He turns on the stove and grabs two slices of bread, sliding them into the toaster and then rummaging for the butter.

He pads barefoot back to Orlando's room and begins to climb back into bed for their morning snog. Orlando rarely wakes to the alarm. Billy stands at the foot of the bed, staring at Orlando's sleeping form. And stares some more. And continues to stare, even as the kettle whistles from the kitchen.

Billy shakes his head, rubbing at his bleary eyes.

Funny, but he doesn't feel like kissing Orlando at all.

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