Okay, Melle, you don't have to.

Harry accepted another beer with a laugh and a quick thanks for the friend who'd brought it to him. He accepted the joint that was passed to him just as easily.

This, he thought as he slowly released the smoke from his lungs, was something that was completely his. Wills couldn't have this. It was his experience, his life, and he was doing it first. He was sure he was. Wills was good and true and perfect. He would never drink until he couldn't feel anymore. He would never light up a joint so he could float away on the smoke and forget who he was.

But he was supposed to be forgetting about all that. That was the point of this, wasn't it? He moved around the room until he found a bong. This was better. He took the bong from a giggling girl who certainly didn't need it anymore. Someone else held the lighter for him while he concentrated on the inhale-hold-release pattern of getting as high as possible.

Now it was starting to get good. No Wills. No Mummy. No Dad. Nothing but him and the sweet intoxication of smoke and alcohol. He leaned back against the couch cushions, marveling at their softness. This was nice. Drunk. High. Drifting. It was his favorite state of mind.

Makin' a list.

This feels a bit like self-aggrandizement, but I liked reading Melle's list, and it sure beats proving that G is an abelian group if, for all x in G, x²=1.

This list is in three parts: Things I'm actively writing, things I'd like to finish someday in the future, and things I'd like to write but probably won't. This list represents only a small fraction of the unfinished fic I have lying around.

( It's a long list. )

Because I can't start rumors about them.

He lounges naked on her bed one afternoon when neither of them has to be on the set.

"Orli," she says, just to hear her own voice.

"Mmm." He rolls and looks at her. "Liv. Livvy. Liffey."

She laughs. "Liffey?"

He shoots her an offended look. "It's a river in Ireland."

She giggles. "I'm a river."

He smirks and slides his hand over her hip. "You are often wet."

She blushes, but laughs anyway. "God, Orli. You're so crude."

He slides onto her, his hand parting her thighs. "I thought you liked it when I was crude."

Her body opens easily to his touch. "I do."