FIC: "Free Falling" (1/1)
SERIES: "Colin Farrell's Adventures in Slash"
AUTHOR: Mistress Marilyn camelotslash-2 at qwest.net
DATE: November 4-5, 2004
FANDOM: RPS, plus AU "Alexander"
PAIRING: Colin and somebody . . .
DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'em. They're either real people, or they're characters belonging to Warner Brothers Pictures, to Oliver Stone and the respective actors of the movie, and to the ages. This is a work of a fan, done for no remuneration save the satisfaction of the work.
WARNINGS/RATING: Slash, a few real people, angst, violence, bondage, rough sex.
SUMMARY: Is Colin hallucinating or just channeling Alexander the Great?
BETA: FatJoey (it's about time you gave me a little help!)
DEDICATION: To Joann and Richmond_Red_Cait who are evidently as sick and twisted as I am . . . you go, girls!
AUTHOR NOTES: He may not actually do other guys, but he can't convince me that he doesn't fantasize about it . . .

"Sweetheart, can you get me another beer?" Colin Farrell asked, trying not to leer up at the flight attendant who bore a striking resemblance to Britney Spears in the 'Toxic' music video. Maybe later she'd take him into the restroom and pull his pants off.

She grinned and winked -- or at least he had the impression she winked. A wave of dizziness passed over him as he watched her strut away to get his drink, her high, tight ass wiggling in her suit, a much more modest outfit than the one Britney wore in the video. He sighed as his vision slowly cleared. He hoped he wasn't getting motion sick on the long flight to New York City.

Colin was a white-knuckle flyer. He hated the time he was forced to spend in the air, shuttling from one location to the other, from his home in Ireland to the U.S., from one commitment to another. Considering the amount of traveling he did, he knew he should be getting accustomed to the feeling of the ground falling out from under him as he rose above the earth, but somehow he never got past his fear.

If an engine blew right this minute, he would probably die. And as he waited for his beer, Colin spent some time imagining just how he would die.

The plane would implode on impact. Even though they were above the Atlantic Ocean, hitting the water from this altitude would be like smashing into cement. His body would be crushed, but he probably wouldn't feel anything beyond one explosive moment of pain . . .

The plane would drill through the surface of the water like a rocket, going down, down, down into the ocean as it filled with cold, salty water. He would swim up and press his face against the ceiling, sucking air until there was finally none left; and then he would open his mouth and breathe in water until his lungs gave out . . .

The plane would burst open and the passengers would be thrown into the ocean. Battered and bruised, he would cling to a large chunk of debris until the freezing water finally numbed his body and he was forced to give up and sink into the blackness like Leonardo DiCaprio in 'Titanic' . . .

He chuckled to himself when he thought about DiCaprio, the actor who had hoped to play Alexander the Great in Baz Luhrmann's long-promised but never realized project. Leo would never be able to hide his aggravation that Colin had beat him to the screen as Alexander. Cunt.

The flight attendant returned with his beer. "Anything else I can get you?" she asked.

"Thanks," he said, his morbid spell broken. "I'm good."

He reached in his pocket for the motion sickness pills he always carried with him on transatlantic flights. The container was empty.

Shit. He was sure he had brought a good supply. How many had he already taken?

A bell sounded and a man's voice came over the intercom warning the passengers to stay in their seats. Colin's heartbeat quickened.

"What the fuck is it?" he asked the flight attendant.

"It's nothing. Just a little turbulence. You'll want to keep your seatbelt on." Her accent was definitely Southern England -- very highbrow. He wondered if she had taken some sort of speech lessons.

He reluctantly snapped his seatbelt closed, then experienced another bout of vertigo. Fuck this, he thought, bending forward and squeezing his eyes shut. He hoped he wouldn't have to puke into a damn bag, something he hated doing. But he felt sick. Cold perspiration popped out on his face.

"Are you all right?" he heard the perky attendant ask.

He shook his head, unable to answer.

"Why don't you lower your seat, and I'll get you a cool cloth."

Breathing deeply, Colin followed the young woman's advice. He released his seat and reclined, glad he was one of the few people in the first class section. He kept his eyes closed, sure even the sight of the dark mist rolling past the windows would pull the trigger on his nausea.

He heard a loud noise and felt the plane buck and then accelerate. Were they going up or down?

I'm going to fucking die, he thought; then he lost consciousness.

When he woke, he was lying on his face in bed. He groaned and tried to sit up, sharp pain splitting his skull. He saw he had indeed vomited on the sheet, but he had evidently been too oblivious to care.

"Oh . . . oh," he moaned, rolling over.

Above him stood the tall figure of Jared Leto, the actor who had so recently portrayed his closest companion in the movie 'Alexander.' Leto was dressed as his character, Hephaistion, and his dark hair spilled over his shoulders, as long as it had been in the movie.

Colin stared, trying to clear his head.

"Jared?"

"Alexander? Are you yourself again?"

Colin looked down at himself. He was naked and soiled with sweat and his own vomit. In several spots he saw the scars so carefully applied by the skilled makeup artists. He ran a hand through his hair, noting its length, even as he turned his head around and studied the shadowy décor of what appeared to be an elaborate bedchamber.

He couldn't be back on the set. The movie had wrapped months earlier!

"Do you remember what you did?" Leto asked. "Cleitus is dead!"

"Cleitus?"

"Alexander, you killed him. I tried to restrain you, but could not. You flew into a rage and killed him!"

Alexander killed Cleitus. They had all had far too much wine, and after Bagoas had danced, Alexander had answered his friends' urgings to kiss the eunuch. The talk had suddenly turned ugly. Cleitus had been insulting and disloyal, and he should have seen that Alexander was shaking with fury. But he had persisted, finally insulting Alexander's mother. And in a blind rage, Alexander had picked up a spear and plunged it through Cleitus' body.

My head is spinning, he thought. I can't have really done this. It was just an act.

He looked up. Hephaistion towered over him.

"Hephaistion?"

"You were not yourself," the tall man said softly.

Alexander started to wail. "I am cursed!" he cried out, pulling at his hair. Hephaistion reached down and restrained him, holding both wrists in his own strong grip.

"Be still, Alexander! I won't let you harm yourself."

"I am cursed! I must be punished!"

Hephaistion knocked him back on the bed. "I am your most loyal friend, Alexander. I will see to it that you're properly punished."

Alexander cried out again as Hephaistion's weight bore down on him. "No, I will not be taken like a boy, Hephaestion! You will not have me like this." He struggled, flailing up at the rigid form of his general.

"Be still. Don't force me to restrain you."

"Get off me! I'll call for the guard!"

A strong hand slapped Alexander across the face. "Call if you want, but no one will come! I've left instructions not to disturb you. They all think you've gone mad."

"No!" Alexander screamed, trying to dislodge Hephaistion. "Get off me."

Hephaistion struck him again, and Alexander's head reeled with a wave of dizziness. He squeezed his eyes shut and struggled to remain conscious as Hephaistion wrapped his wrists with ropes and tied his arms over his head to an ornate carving at the top of the bed.

"You will be still and let me discipline you, Alexander. I am the only one suited to punish you, because I love you more than any other." Hephaistion pulled the soiled sheet from under Alexander and shoved a silken pillow beneath his head.

Opening his eyes, Alexander saw the tall general lifting a leather strap. With a flick of his wrist, Hephaistion brought the strap down across Alexander's naked chest; it cracked against his flesh, raising a stinging weal. As Alexander's breath hissed in, he was struck a second time.

"No!" Alexander cried. But the reaction of his body belied his verbal protestations. The burning pain of his flesh fired his loins, and the evidence of his excitement cast a shadow across his belly. The next blow was aimed lower, leaving a red mark along the ridge of an abdominal muscle. Alexander rose up, balancing himself with arms held taut by the confining rope.

Hephaistion continued to strike the young king, forming a pattern of welts on his lower chest, belly and thighs -- long etchings in his flesh that pointed like roads on a map leading to the citadel of his manhood. All the while he worked, the general moved around the bed, stopping only to find the best aim and strike a particular spot. When Alexander's eyes were watering from the pain, Hephaistion stepped back and seemed to study him with his incredibly blue eyes.

"You bastard!" Alexander spat out. "You have waited for the chance to humble me. You want to revenge yourself because I took the Persian boy to my bed. All this time you've pretended not to care!"

Hephaistion smiled sadly. "You're wrong, my love. I could never begrudge you anything that made you happy. I would give my own life if I thought it could exorcise your demons." He tossed the strap to the floor. "But nothing can achieve that miracle. You will be driven until you die."

"Then fuck me -- treat me like the drunken whore I've been tonight!"

Hephaistion came forward, a finger tracing one particularly swollen welt on Alexander's belly. "I will take you, Alexander, but not like a whore. I will be the man and you will be the god. I will bury myself in your divinity."

Alexander watched Hephaistion toss aside his tunic, his own body stiff with readiness for the task ahead. Another wave of dizziness struck, and Alexander felt like he was falling into the bed or it was plunging out beneath him. But he steadied himself with the burning muscles of his strained arms, wanting Hephaistion so badly now that he would do anything to have him, even if it should mean killing again.

Hephaistion approached from the foot of the bed and slowly climbed on the rough mattress. Balanced on his knees, he reached out and lifted Alexander's legs up until they rested on his wide shoulders. Alexander stared into the face of his general, whose beautiful features were grave with purpose. When Hephaistion bent forward, his stiffness prodding Alexander's backside, Alexander's legs and arms worked to help accomplish the possession. Unwilling to wait, he used his constrained limbs as leverage to hoist himself on his friend's loins, and he bit his lip as the fiber of his body was impaled on Hephaistion's beloved spindle.

"Oh, gods, yes," Alexander said. "At last."

Hephaistion thrust forward, taking control of the penetration, pushing Alexander back down on his back, legs akimbo. "You want this," he said, his voice shaking as violently as his body. "Say it."

"Yes. I said it. Yes."

"I want you . . . to beg me, Alexander," Hephaistion said between grunts. "Beg me to finish you."

Alexander's thoughts whirled, unfocused, as his very core was concentrated on the pleasure and pain he experienced. He didn't care if he behaved like a beast, clawing at Hephaistion's arms and snarling like a wounded lion. He wanted to lose himself in the sensation of possession, to be immolated by the fire of his friend's anger and lust.

"Hurt me!" he demanded, grabbing at Hephaistion's hips.

Hephaistion drove forward like a bull bent on goring the golden king. He thrust into Alexander again and again, until the flesh of both bodies was raw with use. As Alexander sensed the end was near, he used all his strength to pull Hephaistion down close enough to bite his shoulder. Hephaistion cried out and increased his attack, pumping convulsively until finally he stiffened, shuddered and finished.

As the tall Macedonian collapsed over him, Alexander's body began to heave with sobs. It was as though Hephaistion's possession had finally released him from his pent-up shame and guilt. He wept like a boy as his oldest and dearest friend covered him like a quilt, comforting him in strong arms.

The madness was gone. Cleitus was still dead, but Alexander could go on living.

"I'm sick," he said, and Hephaistion held him over the side of the bed as he heaved up the last of the strong wine. When he was finished, his friend gently propped him on a pillow and got a rag to wipe his mouth.

Alexander closed his eyes, happy to be in Hephaistion's care. Beneath him, the bed gave way, and once again Alexander felt the sensation of falling.

"Mr. Farrell! Are you all right?"

The voice called him back to consciousness, and Colin opened his eyes to stare into the face of the sultry flight attendant.

"What the fuck happened? Did we crash?"

She shook her head, wiping Colin's sweaty face with a cool washcloth. "No. We hit an air pocket, but we're fine. It was just a bit of rough weather."

Rough weather. She had to be fucking kidding!

Colin tasted salt on his lips. Was it sweat or blood? Somewhere in his confused mind was the memory of the madness of Alexander the Great and the cure for that madness offered by his beloved general. Was it a scene from the movie or a racial memory transferred somehow by his painstaking attempt to recreate the legendary conqueror?

"I'm gonna be sick," he announced, reaching for the bag on the seat in front of him.

"I'll get you some water," said the flight attendant, hurrying down the aisle, evidently unwilling to hold his head as he puked into the bag.

If Hephaistion were here, Colin knew he'd help. But he pushed the thought away, realizing how fucking crazy it was. He wasn't really Alexander, and there was no Hephaistion to hold his head.

He wondered, though, what Jared would have done . . .

When he was finished, he refused the water and used beer to wash away the taste of puke. Then he turned his head toward the window and stared out at the darkness for some time, allowing his mind to free-fall as he considered Alexander and Hephaistion -- and Jared Leto -- before he finally turned off his thoughts and closed his eyes.

The End