It arrives in a plain manila envelope on a Tuesday morning. Dom
grabs the mail on his way back from the gym, hair still damp and jeans
unbelted because he'd thought he was in a hurry. Turns out the
meeting he'd been rushing for was the next
week, but without Elijah around to pester him about his schedule, he'd
gotten the dates mixed up.
He's flipping through the stack of mail, sorting out bits addressed to
Elijah that he'll have to forward to New York, when he comes upon the
eight-by-ten envelope. There is no return address, and Dom
doesn't recognize the plain block printing that spells out his own name
and address.
With his gym bag still slung over his shoulder, Dom holds in his teeth
the bills and things for Elijah and slides a finger under the edge of
the mystery envelope. Inside is a single piece of photographic
paper, face down as Dom pulls it out. When he turns the picture
over, his mouth opens into an ‘o' of surprise and the other letters
flutter to his feet. His bag slides off his shoulder and lands on
top of his mobile bill.
The photograph is black and white on glossy, expensive paper, and in it
Dom is naked. Curled around him is an equally naked Elijah Wood.
Dom is pretty sure this scene never actually took place. He would
remember something like that happening, wouldn't he? Naked and
curled up with Elijah, eyes beckoning to the camera? He'd have
remembered that. Even if he'd been beyond pissed. His cock
stirs as if to second that thought. Yes, he'd've remembered.
Dom squints at the photograph again, trying to piece together the
mystery. Elijah is naked in the picture, too, but his bits are
hidden behind Dom, snuggled in close as he is. Dom's bits,
however, are clearly visible, so he studies them, feeling oddly
voyeuristic. The length is familiar, and the hand resting on his
thigh near his cock is familiar as well; the thumb ring and leather
bracelets are definitely his. It's not until Dom sees what should
be the patch of light-to-dark hair trailing down toward what should be
his cock that he realizes what he's looking at. The hair is
thicker and darker than Dom's own. It's not him. It's his
face, certainly, and someone has done an excellent job with his
accessories, but it's not Dom. Which means it's also not
Elijah. It's just an excellent photo manipulation.
Dom scrunches up his face and turns the photo over again to see if it's
been signed. No. He tips the envelope over and shakes it
before peering inside to see if there had been a note attached.
Nothing.
Huh.
Dom squints into the glaring California sun for a moment before
deliberately sliding the photo back into its envelope. He picks
up the scattered mail and his gym bag and lets himself into the house.
Dom sets the bills on the hall table and the letters for Elijah -- all
five of them -- on the kitchen counter. Maybe he'll take them
over to Elijah's mum. She baked biscuits yesterday, and Dom
figures she'll send Elijah the ones she didn't drop off for Dom.
She might as well forward his mail as well. The manila envelope
he pitches into the rubbish bin.
He spends his day catching up on odd projects. He calls Billy but
the wanker doesn't answer. Dom leaves an obscene message and then
calls his agent who spends half an hour going over possible projects in
New York. Some of them Dom thinks sound promising, some of them
sound ridiculous, and some of them sound downright career-killing, but
Dom carefully listens to each pitch. After he hangs up, he
wonders if Elijah is being offered the same parts.
::::
It's well past 2:00 a.m. and Dom cannot sleep. He's not a sheep
counter and the alphabet backwards requires more concentration than he
can muster. There is nothing on TV. All Dom can think of is
Elijah in New York -- where it's after 5:00 in the morning. Which
rules out a phone call.
Bugger.
When Elijah left for the East Coast and, subsequently, left Dom in
charge of the house, Dom didn't realize it would feel this empty in the
middle of the night.
He eases out of bed and pads across his room to the door. The
joints in his ankles crackle as he heads for the kitchen and the
rubbish bin and the photo that had come in the mail earlier that day.
Halfway down the hallway Dom reminds himself that there was a reason he
threw the picture away: it wasn't real. Some fan, probably some
nutter of a girl from what he'd heard about these things, thought he
and Elijah should be together like that. They weren't, which is why the photo had
to have been manipulated. But someone wanted it that way, even if
Dom and Elijah weren't that way really, even if they really were just
friends. Good friends. The best mates possible.
Dom has always thought these things were true, that Elijah, while a
good mate, just wasn't shaggable.
As he lifts the envelope out of the trash, which is luckily free of
banana peels and tea leaves, Dom thinks he might have been wrong.
He thinks of Elijah, who must be asleep right now in his new New York
apartment. Sliding the picture out, Dom lets his eyes move over
Elijah's face, placed so skillfully that Dom can honestly imagine that
the body joined to it is really Elijah's. Dom can't ignore the
details: the creamy skin set off by the blacks and whites and greys of
the picture, the ease of Elijah's posture, the way he is clearly so
into Dom -- or whoever is playing the role of Dom in this photograph.
This Elijah wants Dom.
Is that really so far-fetched?
Dom throws the envelope into the trash again, but he takes the photo
with him back to his bedroom.
::::
He doesn't wank to the image that first night. Despite his
sleeplessness and his creeping desires, it's still too new and too
weird, the idea of Elijah being into him like that, the way the
language of Elijah's body, or what Dom has come to think of as Elijah's
body, beckons to him. No, he doesn't wank to it that first
night. Dom waits three whole days before getting the picture out
from under his mattress.
He holds it in his left hand while easing his right down his belly,
through the thin patch of fuzz that marks the difference between his
own, real body and his body in the photograph. From there Dom
teases himself, tickling the length of his cock with light brushes of
his fingertips. Studying Elijah's open, innocent eyes and the
soft pout of Elijah's lower lip, Dom takes himself with a firm grip and
pumps, once, twice, three times before easing back and stroking himself
with only his thumb along the underside of his cock.
Elijah would eye him just like that; tortured pseudo-innocence and heat
rolled into one look. Elijah wants him, Dom thinks. That
much is clear in the photo. He pumps again, closing his fist over
the tip of his cock and rubbing quickly in a motion he can imagine
being made by Elijah's mouth.
Dom licks his lips and almost comes.
Instead of pushing through, though, he makes himself stop altogether
and rolls over onto his stomach, trapping his cock between his belly
and the bed sheets. He props the picture up on his pillow and,
resting his chin on his hands, studies it more intently.
Elijah's eyes are grey in the monochrome of the picture, grey like the
clouds of sun showers. His body implies all sorts of want, curled
possessively around Dom. Thrusting against the sheets, Dom wills
Elijah's photographic hand to sneak down from his shoulder to his cock.
He's stopped reminding himself that the picture isn't real.
Rolling back over again Dom props the picture up against his left
thigh, letting his right leg lie flat against the sheets and stroking
himself again, slowly, just using fingertips. Dom can almost feel
Elijah's small hands moving down and then up again, pausing to tickle,
to pet, before cupping Dom's cock and moving with quick sure strokes,
pressing it against Dom's belly for added friction.
When Dom comes, it is Elijah who has brought him off.
::::
Dom is awakened the next morning by the ringing of his phone.
Caller I.D. shows it to be Elijah, calling from his mobile. He's
probably having breakfast in some quaint New York coffee shop; Dom can
see him in his mind's eye. The image is in black and white.
Blinking, Dom picks up with a sleep-scratchy "'Lo?"
"Dom!" Elijah crows, "still in bed? It's a beautiful day!"
Dom blinks at his alarm clock before answering. "It may be
beautiful in New York but it's still dark here, wanker."
Elijah laughs. Dom cradles the cordless phone against his
shoulder while he looks around his bedroom, trying to figure out where
he tossed his boxers the night before. His eyes light on the
photograph just as Elijah asks, "So, did you get the mail I sent you?"
Dom drops the phone.