A Chord
by Trianne
Rufus Wainwright/Elijah Wood
Rating: PG13
Summary: Originally written in response to a request. At the time, I'd never heard of Mr. Wainwright and had to google. I've since seen him perform and bought his music, so would probably approach this a little differently now.
Author's Notes: Thank you to Hanarobi for letting me know that Rufus is a friend of Michael Cavadias (a very beautiful NY drag queen). So the Michael referred to is him.
Disclaimer: I do not know any of these people. No offence is intended nor profit made.
You know you're in trouble when you're at a party you don't want to be at and all the people are either very old, very young – and not in a good way – or very stupid, and you know you can't leave because your ride isn't due for another hour and yes, you could phone him and ask him to arrive earlier, but no, you won't because on principal that would be wrong, seeing as he has a hot date and you encouraged him to go on it in the first place. And so you wait for the allotted time and resist the temptation to call a cab because you promised him you would be the first to hear all the juicy details of his encounter with the Che Guevera lookalike who has to run out on him and hop on a plane to, of all places, Brussels. Not that there's anything wrong with Brussels or Belgium as a whole, it's just not the most exotic place on earth. But this party sucketh rocks and the booze is expensive crap and the hosts are Ken and Barbie without their dress sense. And finally, even though you still have forty six minutes to kill before you're out of here, you just can't stand to be pounced on by middle aged men in leather pants anymore and the music is banal to the point of actual physical pain. So you get out your phone and start to dial for a cab and you will explain to Michael when you see him later that the party was a disaster zone and you had enough and you notice the moon is full in the sky, glimpsed through Barbie's mullioned windows and then you see that in Barbie's garden, in the moonlight, stands a guy you didn't see before and he's smoking and he's kind of hard to make out clearly but he looks lithe and there's something about him that is familiar but strange. Or strangely familiar.
So, you head out into the moonlit garden and find that he's moved over to a bench and is sprawled on it, puffing away and you know the smell of sampoernas when you smell it. He's small and pretty and you like the clothes he wears – he wears the clothes, not the other way around, which is good. But he might be a total airhead and if he is, then you're out of here because the art of conversation is as every bit as seductive as a well-formed pair of ass cheeks and though he appears to have those, judging by the shape of his thighs, if he starts to squee "Rufus! Ohmygod!", then he's not getting beyond first base, pretty moonlit profile or not.
He acknowledges you with a slight nod and takes a last drag of his cigarette before grinding it out on Barbie's patio. Then he turns to look at you and you see something pass behind those eyes which are lemur-big, and you know that he's going through precisely the same elimination process you just did, and that comforts you. You might not reach his standard and you might be rejected. And that's a good thing. You like selectivity in your selections. And you most definitely have selected him. And you know who he is now, how could you not? But it's a secondary thrill, because you wanted him when you saw him bathed in moonlight, when you were forty-six minutes away from hearing Michael's assessment of his swarthy new lover, and you want him to want you and he might not. Want you.
"I'm out of here," he says, quietly. "I'm going to go say my goodbyes to Barbie and Ken, then I'm off."
He calls them Barbie and Ken. You thought you were being original applying that particular appellation to your host and hostess and now you see that probably everyone in that mock-Georgian ballroom was thinking the same thing. Or maybe just you and this guy. Elijah Wood.
"Can I have a ride?" you ask and if he thinks the wording is amusing, he doesn't let on. He just stands and nods and heads into the house. A few moments later he's back and you're heading towards his car and he's so small but perfectly formed, all his moving parts sinuous.
"So, Rufus, where do you want to go?" he asks, when you're both seated, though the legroom in his Mini Cooper leaves something to be desired.
"Where you're going, of course," you reply and he smiles.
"It might be a bumpy ride," his words are swallowed up by the sudden blare of a band that you especially dislike and for a moment you consider just asking to be dropped off at your own house, that maybe his taste in music is indicative of something deeper and disturbing. Like, yes, he might have beautiful hands and smell good and have lashes which you could hang your jacket on, but if his musical preferences are this bad then what's the point? And then he's doing the almost imperceptible head nod in time to the rhythm and his little foot is tapping on the pedal and you know you should maybe just remember a prior appointment. But a car has cut in front of him and he has to brake hard and then he lets go a stream of invective that could curdle milk and it's the sexiest thing you've heard in ages and each word is a little jewel spurting from his mouth and his mouth is a place you want to spend some time in.
"You have green eyes," he says, matter-of-factly, as he parks his car. "My last boyfriend had green eyes."
And that might be presumption, it might be construed as complacency, that maybe you are the next boyfriend and that should rankle but it doesn't. And you know that tomorrow, when you see him, Michael won't be the only one with a story to tell.
The End