Four o'clock
Pairing: None
Disclaimer: Don’t know these people. No offence intended or money made.
It’s four o’clock in the morning and his hands are cold.
He smiles, remembering how he would warm them by shoving them between Dominic’s thighs, laughing as Dom squeaked and pushed them away. The next step was always being pushed over onto his back, kissing and being kissed. "I’ll warm you up," Dominic would growl, mock-fiercely, and the sex would be good and dirty and hot, and afterwards he would feel so used and bruised and fucked that he didn’t care if his hands were still cold.
He rubs his palms together and remembers a day halfway up a mountain when his hands were so red and numb that he could barely feel them, even when he cupped them and blew on them, trying to warm them with his breath. The others around him were worried about it, he knew, since he was feeling the cold so badly, and then his hands were taken in a warm, knowing grip and tucked inside a thick costume, held against a strong, beating heart until they were warm again. And then Beanie smiled and released him, going back to his companions.
He had tried to learn to surf, but wasn’t great at it; for some reason his sense of balance wasn’t as good as it should be, and he would get dumped into the ocean on a regular basis and would sit hunched on the beach, shivering and miserable, his hands cold and wet, trying to hide his misery because the others were having such a good time. And Billy had sat down next to him and hadn’t touched his hands, oh no, but instead had wrapped a companionable arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a rough, friendly hug, telling him that it was all right to be crap at this, even if he was a Californian by adoption if not by birth, whilst he, a tiny, weedy Scot, was ace. And the friendliness in the voice and the comfort of the arm had warmed him and brought him out of his self-pity.
He leans his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands, hoping that his burning cheeks might warm him a little. Viggo and Orlando, so together, so at one with each other, taking him outside the city one warm spring night. He remembers drinking red wine with them while Viggo pointed out the constellations, so different to the ones in the other hemisphere. He had leaned against Orli and let himself be lulled by the soft harshness of Viggo’s voice, the gentleness of Orli’s hand stroking down his arm. Down and down and down… and there had been kissing and softness and love on that hill, holding and taking and giving. Such beauty in the night that the thought of it could almost make him cry. He had been warm then, every part of him.
He sat back again, looking out at the lights. Thinking about the last time he saw Sean. The awkwardness as they hugged at the airport. "Strange to think we’ll never be hobbits again," Sean had said, trying to make the parting as light as possible. "I’ll miss my Frodo." And then he realised that he was never cold with Sean. Sean made him warm from the inside out, and he had clung, trying to keep Sean with him, trying to hang onto some vestige of Sam to carry with him back into a world he didn’t recognise anymore. Sean had held him close and whispered to him, words of love and of a friendship that would never die. A promise that he would always be there. "Whenever you need me, you just pick up the phone."
Elijah looks at the clock. It’s 5 o’clock in the morning and his hands are cold.
He picks up the phone.
The End
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