winterlive had a birthday, and a request, and I dropped the ball on posting, so I'm doing so today. Ewan/Hayden, general adult themes, shortish, Hayden's POV.
He had quit drinking, was trying to stop smoking. Sometimes he’d punish me by staying away if I lit up after a rehearsal. I didn’t have his strength, and was still young enough to think I could quit at any time. Most times he’d laugh and joke to keep a distance between us when there were others close-by. We were close, he would say, but Hayden’s just a good kid, he’d follow.
I was the inexperienced one, the one who hadn’t learned discretion. It hurt me, cut me deeply to think I was just a way for him to pass the time. His dirty little secret. But still, I never turned him away when he came to me. I didn’t know how.
Odd hours of the day, in between takes, during late night shooting sessions when George and his crew would watch the dailies over and over again - that was when he’d slip into my trailer. Always mine, never his. Mine was in the back of the lot - George wanted my trailer surrounded with trees to keep the fans and their cameras away. I didn’t care - I got to blast my music loud, walk around in my briefs, my smoke hanging from my lip, and be away from my family, my agents, everyone.
He tried to quit smoking. There were times he would come to me after I had finished a few, kissing me roughly, deeply, tasting the lingering smoke on my tongue, nuzzle behind my ear, lip the curls on my head that I always tried to slick down. Sometimes when he left he would pull my tee-shirt on and leave his behind. Once I caught him pretending to wipe his forehead on the sleeve, but I saw him breathe me in. It helped.
Sometimes we would just sit, not speaking for long stretches of time, happy to be comfortable with long silences for a change. Sometimes he would come at me with such need and ferocity I had to choke back a sob as I came. He liked me on all fours - said it made my height easier to manage. I didn’t care how he took me, just as long as he did. Hands gripping my hair, pulling it tight off my skull, pushing himself into me, his voice rising in a strangled tenor, then always, always soft kisses along my jaw, along my temple, his thumb across my lower lip.
He would hold me and soothe me and kiss me until I came down from my high and smiled, relaxed at his touch. He’d flash his famous grin, pop up on his feet, and start dressing immediately. He never stayed long - couldn’t risk it.
Some nights I woke up in a sweat, clutching the sheets, never knowing if I had called his name out loud. Some nights I lay in bed, his forgotten shirt tucked inside my pillowcase, one hand thrown over my head, eyes staring at nothing. Always I woke up alone.
That may suck. I have no idea today, which is why I'm waiting to post more PotC until my head isn't in a fog. (some of you may have missed Saturday's post, btw.)
Happy birthday to annakovsky, and while I don't believe she reads my journal, I do enjoy the hell out of her writing. Fabulous writer, she is. Also, happy birthday to the very funny and snarky grifyn, who probably doesn't want to acknowledge today, but I am always glad to read her funny posts about life, her job and UberKid. I hope today is a peaceful one, G.