hackthis_archive | Star Wars RPS – The Man Who Sold the World

K is away doing whatever she does when she's not driving me crazy. H is being forced to endure the craziness of me in full new shiny fandom mode. It's kinda funny, in a bad way. This is for the letters K & H, who make pretty much everything possible.

Star Wars RPS
Rated PAC for porn, angst and crack. Oh and motorbikes
Hayden Christensen/Ewan McGregor/Jude Law and uh, some bloke named Viggo.

The Man Who Sold the World

The first postcard arrives on a Tuesday. Hayden is sitting in the kitchen, drinking a glass of lemonade, rubbing the condensation from the glass between the tips of his fingers. His glasses are a bit smeary, and he's got crumbs from his sandwich on his boxers and around his mouth.

The radio is white noise in the background, and there's some guy on NPR complaining about something, which is all they do on NPR. Hayden's not sure why he listens in; he's not the Goodwill Ambassador type.

When the mail slips through the slot next to the front door, he can hear it land and scatter all over the floor. He pushes back from the kitchen table slowly, and wanders over to get it with bare feet, all the while scratching at his chest.

The floor is sticky. It needs to be cleaned. His skin is dry and needs lotion.

There are flyers and junk mail and a few magazines that he hasn't read in ages, but keeps subscriptions to because they make his apartment feel like home when he's there. All the really important things he has sent to his manager's office. He's not home enough to look after things like the gas and the electricity.

He balls up most of the junk mail, but something pointy and resistant scrapes against his palm. When he looks again, he sees the postcard slotted in with the junk.

Story art for The Man Who Sold the World

It's addressed to him, but there aren't any words on the back. There's no message, not even a 'Wish you were here'. It's not even signed, but Hayden smiles anyway and drops the rest of the mail on the floor.

He goes back over to the kitchen table and props the postcard up against his glass of lemonade. Maybe he'll get dressed today after all.

*

Ewan is shooting an indie film in Canada -– Nova Scotia –- with Viggo Mortensen. The film is called Diurnal Tide. Hayden doesn't even know what diurnal tide is and has to look it up on the internet.

Diurnal means something that has a daily cycle or occurs every day. Hayden doesn't understand why they don't just say it's an everyday thing –- 'diurnal' sounds like it has to do with your urine, which is just weird, but it would be so Ewan.

Anything for a chance to get his dick out.

At least Ewan is doing something since Guys and Dolls wrapped. Now that The Decameron has finished filming, Hayden's 'in between' projects.

He's not sure how long this 'in between' thing is going to last; his agent is freaking out because he won't read any scripts. It's not as though he's trying to be difficult though, he just feels really tired and uninspired. School seems like it would be a really good break. He could go somewhere sunny, maybe UCLA, or maybe not. Los Angeles would be a lot.

London would be good, he could go to UCL and study architecture. Europe seems like a better place to study architecture than the US, more history, more people. More time to see people like Jude and Ewan.

Well, maybe less of Jude and more of Ewan.

Hayden misses –- he just misses.

*

The second postcard arrives on a Friday. Hayden is still puttering around the house in his boxers, not reading scripts, and not showering. The postcard has a starfish on it. Hayden likes starfish, something about the prickliness makes him smile.

At least this postcard has a line on it:

I'm freezing my bollocks off!
Hayden tapes the second postcard to the door of his refrigerator, underneath the first postcard, and stares at them for a long time. The pictures are simple and pretty, nothing fancy, but they make something in his chest hurt. It's almost like heartburn, but not quite.

Hayden wonders if Ewan is going to be naked in Diurnal Tide; he wonders if Ewan is going to be naked with Viggo Mortensen. The idea alone freaks him out, and he's not certain if it's an abundance of hormones or jealousy or both. Of course Ewan is going to do films with other people –- it's what actors do. Ewan's an actor –- a better actor than Hayden a lot of the time -- and Hayden can feel phantom pains in his fingers from too many lightsaber practices where he took out his frustrations on the wrong thing.

When Tove comes over in the afternoon, he raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. He drags Hayden out the house to play tennis, but they end up going dirt-biking instead.

Hayden can't get on a motorbike without thinking of Ewan. It makes life very difficult sometimes, especially when it's someone's birthday and there are kidnappings to plan. It's hard to look at maps of good locations when all Hayden can think about is his arms around Ewan's waist, and the amused smirk Ewan gave him the first time he got a leg over and climbed aboard Ewan's bike.

Ewan smelled like sweat and tea and coffee and the cigarettes that Jude chain-smoked while visiting. The first thing Ewan said to Hayden when he got aboard was, "Enjoy the bitch seat!"

"I'm not your bitch," Hayden had protested, even as he'd fastened his helmet, and wrapped his arms around Ewan's waist.

"Not yet," Ewan mocked. "But wait until this ride is over..."

And that had been that -– Hayden had fallen in love... with dirt-biking.

Ewan was a much more complicated matter.

It was hard to properly crush on someone who had the names of his wife and his daughters tattooed on his arm. Of course, Jude had done the same thing, Hayden had seen the tattoo on his forearm, but that hadn't gotten Jude anywhere but giving Sadie 25%.

Hayden reads the tabloids just like everyone else.

*

There's a thin powdered layer of dirt on Hayden's face when they come back in the evening, which he wipes away with the hem of his tee shirt, and he gives Tove his best 'everything's just fucking fine' grin when Tove claps him on the back. His brother just shakes his head; Hayden may be an actor, but he can't fool his family. He sighs inwardly when Tove takes off his sneakers, because that means he's going to stick around, and Hayden grabs the phone from the kitchen counter and takes it with him to the bathroom. He says he's going to order them pizza before he showers, but instead he finds himself leaning against the sink and dialing a 16-digit mobile number from memory.

Ewan's in Canada, but Hayden has to dial the UK to get him. It's the stupidest thing ever, and the phone rings shrilly in Hayden's left ear. The muscles in his legs contract and twitch, residual muscle spasms from riding, and Hayden's voice gets caught when the phone is answered. "Ewan McGregor's winter of discontent," a man on the other end proclaims, and Hayden makes a wheezing noise, because that's an American accent and Ewan -–

"I can hear you breathing, little brother" the man says cordially. "You sound like you've been doing something sporting. A man needs to commune with nature, it's the essence of our being."

At this point Hayden knows he needs to speak, since the person on the other end knows it's a man, or a boy, or his name came up on the LCD screen, and why is someone else answering Ewan's phone? Hayden can hear noises in the background, and he swallows around the stone in his throat. This must be Viggo; he must be with Ewan. Hayden doesn’t even want to think about what they're doing. The noises in the background of the phone are becoming clearer, and Hayden can hear Ewan railing about something.

God, knowing Ewan he could be railing about the size of his dick or actually measuring it with a ruler.

Viggo Mortensen interrupts Hayden mid-freak-out. "He's in good hands; I promise I'll return him unharmed."

Viggo's attempts at cosseting do nothing but fray Hayden's nerves, and when he finally speaks his voice is high-pitched and squeaky. He sounds twelve. "I, uh, was just calling to say 'hey', but it's cool. Never mind."

"Do you listen to Nirvana, little brother?"

Hayden's just about to hang-up when Viggo asks him this completely random question, and he pauses. "Sure, everybody listens to Nirvana."

"You know that 'never mind' is two words not one, like in the title of the album?"

Hayden has no idea what this has to do with anything. "Yeah, I know that."

Viggo makes a 'hmm'ing sound. "That's good. That's real good. I'll tell Ewan you send your regards. He misses you, too."

Hayden's still staring at the phone long after Viggo hangs up.

*

It's hot inside the helmet for his dirt bike, and Hayden doesn't like helmets, they make him feel like he's being suffocated slowly by a paper bag.

His ears are squished against the side of his head, and his hair is plastering itself to the back of his neck. He can feel the sweat on his scalp where he can't get to it, and he grips the handlebars that much tighter and speeds along the bumpy off-road. The gravel spins underneath the wheels of his bike, and he thinks about films and sweat and men who are married but still look at him like he's something special.

He thinks he needs to move to the desert where he can bike all he wants. He wants to travel more. He wishes that Ewan had invited him on that trip around the world, but that was 'just for me and Charley, mate.' It was a 'boys thing', and apparently, Hayden's not one of the boys. He's just Hayden.

He's just some guy from Toronto with a postcard stuck in the waistband of his jeans that's tacky and sticking to his damp skin.

It's the middle of the night, and Hayden got his third postcard today, but because he was out with his friends, he didn't see it until he stumbled through his front door about thirty minutes ago. Any sane person would have just gone to bed, but Hayden's not feeling very sane. Ewan is sending him photographs that Viggo Mortensen is taking of people with tattoos on the beach; Hayden is so fucking confused.

There's a theme running here that he can't figure out.

He stops the bike near a grove of trees, and the engine is still rumbling as he begins fumbling with his jeans and the postcard. His life is one big mess. All Hayden wants is this one thing that can't be his, and the unfairness of it all is mind-numbing.

His hands are dusty and clumsy, and he can feel the filth on his skin, hitting all the sensitive places as he slips his hand inside his boxers and jerks himself off astride his bike.

Hayden had these stupid dreams of doing this with Ewan, the rides and the sex, and fuck, the everything. He doesn't know why he thought he could ever have this. He doesn't know why he hasn't planned further ahead. No films, no theatre, no school, not really, all he has are postcards and his dick in his hand.

He thinks about Ewan's mouth on his, about the slickness of Ewan's tongue stroking against his own, and the way that Ewan's stubble rubbed against his chin, leaving his skin raw and pink. He thinks about Ewan's mocking, self-depreciating manner and the way he could insult you and have you agreeing with everything he said.

Hayden's cock twitches at the the memory of Ewan rubbing him through his jeans, and his orgasm sends him sprawling off his bike into the grass, and the postcard bends under the force of his landing, creating a huge crease on the side.

Hayden's head hurts, and he wonders when he put his life on hold for something that is never going to happen.

No one every told him being an adult was like this.

-end-

This has been a Companion Piece to Nugation.

Notes:

ethrosdemon had the audacity to leave me instructions on what she wanted me to write about while she was away. Blame her for the Viggo and 'Diurnal Tide.' She has a thing for him.

The wank is for

serialkarma . The motorbikes are for

embitca and

antimodel, because OMG Jay Leno clips!

Title from the David Bowie song, which was covered by Nirvana

Improv: powder, spin, gravel, desert

Current Mood: I made art, bitch!
Current Music: Wheatus 'Teenage Dirtbag'

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From:

serialkarma.livejournal.com

"Ewan McGregor's winter of discontent," a man on the other end proclaims, and Hayden makes a wheezing noise, because this is an American accent and Ewan –

"I can hear you breathing, little brother" the man says cordially. "You sound like you've been doing something sporting. A man needs to commune with nature, it's the essence of our being."

Okay, that's the funniest damn thing I've read in *days*

I totally less than three you, you know. Even if you are ~~nuts~~ writing SW RPS.

From:

Educated Black Person, Esq., A.A., B.A., MBA, Ph.D., RN, NAACP, AAA

Star Wars RPS – The Man Who Sold the World

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