Title: "Silent" Pairing: Harry Sinclair/Orlando Bloom Rating: PG-13 Summary: The conversations between words. Disclaimer: Never happened. Notes: Written for the contrelamontre 'same dialogue/two scenes' challenge. For Beccaming, for her birthday. "Words are very unnecessary They can only do harm" -- Depeche Mode The problem with not having anything to say was that sometimes there was so much he wanted to say. He just couldn't say it. Like the words were bubbling up under the surface -- so many of them, itching to break free, but Orlando was too clumsy to let them take flight. He wasn't a word artist, wasn't a writer, or a good speaker, even. And most times it was just better to not say anything at all rather than get all tangled in what he wanted to say, but couldn't. Lovely thing about Harry, though, was that he seemed to dig that Orlando didn't say things. Seemed to be comfortable in that slow space where silence became its own kind of conversation, its own kind of poetry. Take now, for instance. Wrapped tight in strong arms, limbs heavy, cock going soft, body sated and eyes closing to better enjoy the moment. No need to ruin it with useless words, with mindless chatter that would shatter the crystalline space with something fuzzy and unreal. Lying here on cooling sheets, the stubble of Harry's chin tickling his head, fan whirling lazily overhead, barely stirring the air, and listening to the steady heartbeat under his ear...words weren't needed. Orlando thought if more people did this -- just took their time, remembered the little things -- then maybe there would be a better understanding of, well, um, everything. The world didn't seem so bleak as long as he was with Harry. Orlando thought maybe that was the way things were supposed to be. "Comfortable?" Harry asked, roughened voice breaking the tangible quiet. "Yeah." Orlando snuggled closer, eyes fluttering shut. "You?" "Yeah." Silence was golden. *** Harry never thought of himself as a scintillating conversationalist. Which was probably a good thing, considering how often he flubbed telling stories or got the punch line of a joke wrong. Give him a camera and he was brimming with ideas, a genius. Too bad he couldn't be a director twenty-four/seven. Luckily, Orlando didn't seem to mind. Harry often wondered what Orlando saw in him. After all, the Hobbits were more fun, Bean could talk football and England ad nauseum, and Viggo was simply the coolest man on the planet. Karl was a great drinking buddy, Craig breathed life into any party -- hell, even Sala and Lawrence were better company, with that witty banter that never ceased when they got around each other. Harry considered himself just, well, boring. Like the plain vanilla ice cream in a shop full of gourmet flavors like Dulce de Leche and Chocolate Chunk Ripple. But Orlando just didn't seem to care that most nights he and Harry wound up sitting on the sofa, watching old movies or rugby games, requisite beer and crisps firmly in hand. Truth was, Harry didn't really care what they did, either. He just liked the way the light from the television flickered across Orlando's face, highlighting sculpted cheekbones and wide, expressive eyes under a high forehead. Harry liked the way Orlando's neck smelled -- Old Spice and almond -- when they cuddled together. Kinda like they were now, bowl of popcorn between them as the late, great James Stewart wooed the equally late, great Katherine Hepburn. Pretty much just liked being in this bubble, grateful as all hell that Orlando'd allowed him in. "Comfortable?" Orlando asked, dropping his head on Harry's shoulder. "Yeah. You?" Orlando snuggled closer when Harry put his arm around Orlando's shoulders and pulled him tight. "Yeah." One day Harry would get the courage to ask 'why me?'. Until then, he'd just enjoy the silence. If you enjoyed this fic, please leave feedback here. Thanks!