Looking back, Elijah couldn't even remember when he had started having those dreams. Maybe it was as early as filming those Rivendell scenes. He remembered there were keas in that park in Wellington. And sometimes, when he was so tired that he fell asleep, split-second-instant-express sleep, standing and waiting for the next take, he would see those birds. A wild mix of bright greens and muted browns, strutting about with their heads raised proudly, they would suddenly show up from under a stone bench or on top of an Elven pavillion. Talking in some secret language of their own Elijah wished he understood.
But the flamingos? Were there flamingos somewhere, down at the bottom of his memories? Had there ever been a happy, sunny Sunday afternoon-family-trip to a zoo, in his early childhood perhaps, before he could actually, consciously, remember the flamingos?
It was strange because he didn't even like birds. Never had. When Hannah was little she had had a mynah, a cheeky pitch-black beast, prattling and palavering all day long. He had hated that bird, as beautiful as it was with its glossy black feathers and its tail of polished turquoise. All that nervous, trembling activity. And that brat of a bird seemed to know damn well that Elijah didn't like him. As soon as Elijah entered the room it would try to land on his shoulders or nest in his hair. Only thinking of it made Elijah shudder and the hair stand up on his arms.
The birds in his dreams were different though. They were bigger. Surreally beautiful visions of a thousand shades of pink and vermillion with beaks shimmering like lacquered ebony. It seemed as if their hearts were beating slower than that of his sister's bird. Listening to the faint sounds of their wings stirring never failed to calm Elijah. And this time he wasn't repelled when he felt their brittle feet on his hands or arms. Their feathers were so soft. When they touched his skin, the hair would stand up on his arms again. For different reasons now.
From a certain point on, his dreams felt empty without those birds. He couldn't command them at will. Sometimes they appeared, and sometimes not. Extreme exhaustion seemed to favour their appearance. He remembered one evening, later into filming, when the rain was splattering consistently onto his roof, a heavy downpour, but not so unusual for the time of the year as people had told him. He lay there in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the falling water, slowly drifting off into sleep, no longer aware whether he was still awake or already asleep. That evening it happened for the first time.
After a while, Viggo would tease him.
"You're talking a lot in your sleep."
But Elijah would always ignore those comments, would quickly try to change the topic, while the he felt the blood rushing red-hot to his cheeks and creep up his neck. How could he explain to Viggo what happened in those dreams?
For off late these dreams had changed their quality. They still began like they always had, with blurry visions of scarlets and crimsons in motion and the fluttering sounds of wings. But now he was nearly always naked, lying on his back, and the bird, yes, it would mostly be only one bird, larger than a normal flamingo, would be on top of him. He could feel the bird's talons, warm and fragile, on his thighs and the wings glide down his sides, faintest imprint of touches. And Elijah would lie there, unable to move, fearing only one thing - that the bird would stop what he was doing and disappear into a cloud of vermilion nothingness.
He was hard each time, very hard, aching to touch himself, but the bird wouldn't let him. Whenever he tried to ease his arousal, the wings would keep his hands down. It was almost painful, but still …
For a long time, the bird was only looking at him, an alien, very quiet and unblinking stare. And finally, Elijah understood.
He turned around and got up on his hands and knees. And waited. And was almost surprised that the bird's penis slipped inside so easily. Surely, even a bird of this size couldn't have a large penis, Elijah was rationalizing. Besides this was nothing but a dream, right?
He got himself books to find out more about flamingos and their mating rituals. But the information he found there seemed in no way related to what was happening to him. These dreams had a silvery, liquid quality, whose final, crucial essence defied all explanation, and kept escaping him, no matter how hard he tried.
He could never see what was actually happening, only feel it. And when the bird's cock was inside him, it no longer felt that small. It was more like when Viggo was fucking him, filling him up completely and thrusting, thrusting till Elijah thought he could take it no longer.
At the same time, his own cock was desperate for some friction, for fingers to close around it, but there were no hands, of course not.
Each time Elijah woke up afterwards, he was wet, covered with sweat and come. And felt so thoroughly fucked that he thought he must be sore.
It's a phase, he told himself. Too much work, not enough sleep, the endless exhaustion. It would surely pass after a while. Nothing to be worried about. He was having vivid dreams, so what? And it was not as if his real sex life wasn't satisfying. It's just a phase. Sooner or later the flamingo wouldn't show up any more.
Elijah wasn't sure whether he would welcome that or not.
One morning, however, his heart almost stood still when he woke up. His post-coital haze, imagined or real, was gone within a second. He reached up to his stomach. No, this couldn't be. He must be still dreaming and the thing would disappear the instant he actually woke up. It wasn't really there. But it didn't vanish.
His hands were trembling when he held it up in the dim morning light, a single, neon- bright pink feather.
***
Later, over breakfast, Elijah got out the feather from his pocket, put it on the table, right in front of Viggo's tea cup and his plate with scrambled eggs, and said. "Sometimes, I hate you. Especially your weird sense of humour."
